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MASTER OF THE MINE 


i 

i 


y 

By ROBERT BUCHANAN. 




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THE MASTER OF THE MINE. 


CHAPTER 1. 

A PROLOGUE, AND THE FIRST SCENE. 

In a large wooden building not far Irom the sea-shore, a building 
attached as school -house to “ Munster’s Boarding Academy for 
Young Gentlemen,” I, Hugh Trelawney, then scarcely ten years 
old, was moping alone. 1 had only arrived two days before from 
London, where i had parted from my father, a traveling lecturer in 
the cause of what was then known as the New Moral World. My 
mother had long been dead, and 1 had led a somewhat neglected 
life, someiimes accompanying my father on his wanderings, more 
often being left to the care, or carelessness, ot strangers. At last 1 
had been sent to Southampton to complete a very perfunctory edu- 
cation. 

It was afternoon, and a half-holiday; my new school-fellows were 
playing close by. P’or myself, I was too used to loneliness to be 
very miserable. 1 merely felt an outcast for the time being, and 
took no interest whatever in my new associations. 

As 1 sat thus, 1 must have fallen into a brown study, from which 
a slight sound startled me. 

Looking up, I met the flash of two dark eyes which were intently 
regarding me. 

‘‘ Are you the new boy?” said a clear voice. 

1 nodded, and stared at my interrogator, a girl of about my own 
age, whose black eyebrows were knitted in a way very curious in 
so 3 mung a child as she seemed. 

Her arms and neck were bare, and she was fondling a kitten, 
whose blight eyes and lissom movements seemed to have some- 
thing in common with her own beauty. 1 noticed, too, tliat she 
wore ear-rings, and that they were ver}^ bright and glistening. 

‘‘ What is your name?” she continued, in the same clear (pies- 
tioning tone, altogether with the manner of a superior who was not 
to be trifled with. 


4 


THE MASTER OF THE MINE, 


Hugh what?*’ 

“ Hugh Trelawney.” 

1 felt somewhat overawed by the tone of the little lady, who, to 
my boyish eyes, seemed much more nay. senior than she was m 
reality. 

She continued to regard me with the same keen scrutiny, and 
then said, looking at my attire, 

“ Who is dead?'" 

1 still woie black for my mother, and, with a somewhat faltering 
voice, 1 told her so. 

She did not seem surprised, and expressed no sympathy; but, 
walking to the school room window, looked out, saying, “ Why 
don’t you go out and play with the other boys?” 

“ J don’t care about play. 1 am liied.” 

“ Tired with what?” she questioned, quickly. 

1 made no reply, for 1 was not prepared for the question. 1 had 
meant to imply that 1 was low-spirited and dull, but had not cared 
to confess so much in so many words. 

She understood me, however, and, although she seemed indifier- 
ent to my condition, troubled me with no more questions. 

Glad to direct her attention from myself, for her bright eyes 
troubled me and made me feel ashamed, 1 stooped down and 
stroked the kitten, which she had placed upon the floor. Even as 
1 did so, 1 could feel her eyes still fixed irpon me; but when 1 
looked up again with an annoyed expression, she turned her eyes 
away, and laughed. 

This emboldened me, and 1 began to question in my turn. 

” Are you the school-master’s daughter?” 

At this she laughed the more— so brightly and pleasantly, with 
such a good-humored sympathy with ray blunder, that my first 
impression of her began to improve, and 1 saw that, besides being 
a rather imperious, she was a very pretty, young lady. 

‘‘ Why do you laugh?” 1 remarked. 

” At you,” she replied; because you take me for Mr. Munster’s 
child. I am a stranger here, like yourself. My people live far 
away in South America, and are very rich. My mother is dead, 
and 1 don’t remember her. My father has sent me here to be 
taught ; but 1 shall soon go back to him. Have you a father?” she 
added, quickly. 

1 nodded. 


THE MASTER OF THE MINE. 


5 


“ Is he kind to you, and was it he that sent you to school?” she 
asked. 

But without waiting for my leply to her questions, she con- 
tinued, “ My father cried when I left him, though he is a great 
man, and when he gave me these ear-rings, he told me my mother 
had worn them before me, and he kissed them. We live far away 
from here, in a brighter place. Don’t you hate England?” 

This was rather a startling query, but being in a state of mind 
bordering on disgust for life in general, 1 readily assented. Her 
eyes gleamed. 

” It is a dreary place,” she cried: ” dull and miserable, and it 
rains nearly every day. But it is dilierent where I come from. It 
is altvays bright there, and there are flowers everywhere, and the 
trees are full of fruit; and there are bright insects, and beautiful 
snakes without stings, that can be taught to twine round your neck, 
and feed out of your hand.” 

As she spoke thus, indeed, it seemed that I was transported to 
the land of which she spoke: her eyes were so sparkling, her face 
so bright and sunny, her form so foreign in its slender beauty— 
and her ear-rings glistened, and her beautiful ivory teeth gleamed — 
and 1 saw her walking in that land, a wonder among all wonders 
there, with fruits and flowers over her head, and brilliant insects 
floating round her, and luminous snakes gleaming harmless in her 
path, and dusky slaves waiting upon her and doing her courtesies. 
For it must be borne in mind that X had been a studious boy, fond 
of reading wild books of travel and adventure, and of picturing in 
my mind the wonders of foreign lands. Much that i had fancied 
of dwellers in distant regions was realized in the face I now beheld 
for the first time. 

At w^hat age is a beautiful human creature — and more particu- 
larly one belonging to the gentler sex— insensible to admiration? 
1 am certain that ray new friend perceived mine, and that it did not 
displease her. It was, at any rate, genuine homage, quietly ex- 
pressed, almost against my will, in the pleased yet timid glances of 
niy eyes. 

"When she next spoke, her clear, impetuous tone was greatly 
changed and softened, and a kinder light dwelt on her face. 

” If you will come with me,” she said, ” 1 will show you the 
place. There is not much to see but the garden, and that I like 
well enough. Will you come?” 

1 rose aw'kwardly, as if at a word of command; and, taking my 


6 


THE MASTER OF THE MINE. 


cap from the peg where it hung, swung it in my hand as 1 followed 
her to the door. 

Ashamed, yet pleased, to be chaperoned bj? a girl, I wondered 
what my school-fellowB would think of it. 

Close to the school-room was the playground, or rather the capa- 
cious piece of lawn, dignified by that name. 

IVly school-felloes were playing cricket thereon. They paid no 
attention to me as 1 passed, but looked at my companion with a 
curious and not too friendly expression. She, for her part, passed 
along imperiously, without deigning to cast a single look in their 
direction; and 1 noticed that her look had changed again, and that 
her dark brows were knitted with the former unpleasant expres- 
sion. She said nothing, however, for some minutes. 

Our first visit was to tfie top of a high knoll behind the house, 
w^hence we could see the surrounding country, and, some miles to 
the southward, the distant sea, with a white frost of billows on the 
edge of liver-colored sands. 

It was a quiet, sunless day; but far away there w^ere gleams of 
watery light on the white sails of ships passing by under fuH can- 
vas. 

The girl looked seaward at the passing sails with much the same 
peculiar expression she had worn on our first encounter. 

How could 1 fathom her thoughts? I guessed she was thinking 
of her home, but 1 was wrong. 

" Are you clever f she asked, suddenly 

This was a question which 1, as a modest boy, felt totally unpre- 
pared to answer. 1 looked at the ground, peeped at her, and 
laughed. Her expression did not change. 

“ 1 mean, do you know much,*’ she continued, in explanation, 
“ Have you learned much before?” 

1 explained to her, as well as possible, that my acquirements 
were very slender indeed, and merel}'" consisted of the stray crumbs 
of knowledge which 1 had been enabled to pick up at day-schools 
in the various towns where my father had resided during my child- 
hood. In point of fact, I w'as a thoroughly uncultivated little boy, 
and had never been crammed with the solid pabulum so much in 
vogue at our public schools. 1 could read and write, oi course 
and knew arithmetic as far as the rule of three, and had got tliiough 
the first lour declensions in the Latin grammar; but all was a 
chaos, and 1 had no accomplishments. 

I did not explain all this to my Interrogator; for I was too proud. 

” If you are not clever, and know so liule,” observed the girl, 


THE MASTER OF THE MTHE. 


»v 

i 


thoughtfully, take care of the other boys. Why don't you make 
friends with tnem? Why do 3mu like to sit alone, and be sullen? 
If there were girls here, 1 should make friends, 1 know. But boys 
are different; they have cruel ways, and they hate each other.” 

All this was said in a tone rather of reflection than of conveisa- 
tion; and she still kept her eyes on the distant ships, as H from 
some secret source far away the current of her thoughts was flow- 
ing. 

“The boys hate me/' she pursued, “because they think me 
proud. 1 am not proud, but I am quicker and cleverer than they 
are, and 1 come from a better place. 1 beat them in the class and 
at all things, except figures; and 1 have helped the biggest uf them 
sometimes, when they were too stupid to understand.” 

All this was a revelation to me. Until that moment 1 had never 
supposed that my companion’s place was among the common 
scholars. During my first two days in school she had been absent 
— a circumstance which she soon explained to me without any 
questioning. 

“ I have been away on a visit, and only returned this morning. 

] do not come to school every day, because 1 have headaches, and 
my father will only have me learn when 1 please. Kow let us go 
down and look at the garden. There are fruit bushes there, and 
some of the fruit is ripe.” 

Still respectful and submissive, 1 followed, and we were soon 
wandering side by side in the quiet garden in the neighborhood of 
the school-house. Ever and anon, as we walked, 1 heard the shouts 
and cries of my playmates; but they were wafted to me as from 
some torsaken life. 

A. spell had been passed upon me, and I was in a dream. As 1 
write, the dream surrounds me still. Years ebb backward, clouds 
part, the old horizons come nearer and nearer, and 1 am again wan- 
dering in the quiet shade of trees with the shining young face at 
my side. 1 can no longer recall looks and words. All becomes a 
tremor. 1 see the one face only, but the voice becomes inarticulate. 

What 1 remember last is a sudden sound dissolving a spell. A 
bell rung loudl}^ from the house, and my companion uttered an ex- 
clamati on — 

“ That is the bell for tea,” she exclaimed. “ You had better go.” 

“ And she ran before me up tne path. She was nearly out of 
sight among the garden bushes when, urged by curiosity, 1 took 
courage, and called after her. 

“ What is your name?” 1 cried. 


8 


THE MASTER OE THE MINE, 


8he nodded back with a smile. 

“Madeline,’' she leplied. “Madeline Graham.” With that 
she was gone. For a moment, I stood bewildered, and then, with 
quite a new light in my eyes, 1 made the best of my way into the 
house, and joined the boys at the tsa-table. 

Although Mrs. Munster presided at the board, my new ftiend did 
not appear, and as 1 munched my bread-and-butter, 1 thought of 
her face with a kind of dreamy pleasure, delicious to recall even 
now. 


CHAPTER 11. 

NEMESIS INTERVENES, 

In my hasty sketch ot school, 1 have made little or no mention 
of the schoolmaster and his wife. Indeed, so far as my present 
retrospection is concerned, they are nonentities; and they form part 
ot my story only in so much as they afiected my relations with the 
leading actress in the life drama to which these chapters are the 
prelude. 

Munster was a feeble-looking but talented little man, with a very 
high forehead, which he was constantly mopping with cold water, 
to subdue inordinate headaches; and Mrs. Munster was a kind 
creature,, with an enormous respect for her lord, and quite a moth- 
erly interest in us boys, she having no children ot her own. 

The manner of these good people was kind toward all; but their 
treatment ot Madeline Graham was blended with a sense of restraint 
almost bordering on fear. It was obvious that they had been in- 
structed to treat her with more than ordinary solicitude, and it was 
equally obvious that they were liberally paid tor so doing. 

When she broke from all restraint, as w'as the case occasionally, 
their concern for heT personal welfare was not unmixed with a fear 
lest open rupture might rob them of the installments derived from 
their wealthiest pupil. Madeline, on her side, was perfectly con- 
scious of this; but, in justice it must be said, that she seldom took 
undue advantage of her position. 

The morel saw of Madeline Graham, the more 1 observed her 
manners and general bearing, the more the thought of her possessed 
me, and blended with my quietest dreams. 

After that first interview, she held somewhat 'aloof for many 
days, but her eyes were constantly watching me in school and at 
meals, though without any approach to further familiarity. She 


THE MASTER OE THE MINE. 


9 


seemea desirous of keeping me at a distance, for reasons which X 
could not possible penetrate. 

Gradually, however, we came together again. 

Madeline had not exaggeiated when she boasted of excelling the 
other scholars in brightness and intelligence. Her memory was ex- 
traordinary, and tasks which taxed all the energies of boyhood were 
easily mastered by her quick and restless brain. 

She was taught with the rest of us in Ihe open school, and was 
generally at the head of her class. 

It so happened that 1 myself, although in many things dull and 
indifferent, was also gifted with a memory of uncommon tenacity. 
In all tasljs which demanded the exercise of this function 1 took a 
foremost place. Madeline was my most formidable rival, and we 
began, quietly at first, but afterward with energy, to fight for the 
maslery. 

The competition, instead of severing, brought us closer to each 
other. 

Madeline respected the spirit which sometimes subdued her, and 
1, for my part, loved her the better for the humanizing touches of 
passion which my victor}^ frequently awakened. 

We had been friends six months, the quiet round of school life 
had become familiar and pleasant to me, when, one day, at break- 
fast, 1 noticed that Munster wore a very troubled expression, as he 
broke open the largest of a number of letters lying before him. The 
envelope was of peculiar yellow paper, and the post-mark looked 
foreign. 

Madeline, who sat close by, turned white and eager, and her great 
eyes fixed themselves on the strange missive. 

Within the letter to Munster, was a smaller one, which he hand- 
ed to Madeline silently. 

With impetuous eagerness, she opened and read it. It was very 
short. As she glanced over it, her bosom rose and fell, her eyes 
brightened and filled with tears. 

To hide her trouble, she rose and left the room. 

Meanwhile, Munster evinced similar surprise and consternation. 
He bit his lips as he read his letter, and passed his hand nervously 
through his hair. Then, with a significant look, he passed the let 
ter to his wife, who, reading it, in her turn became similarly 
troubled. 

As he passed the letter to her, something dropped rustling to the 
fioor, and Munster, looking rather red, stooped^and picked it up. It 


10 


THE MASTER OF THE MIME. 


was a cuiiously printed paper, and looked like the note of some 
toreign bank. 

Breakfast was finished— school began— but Madeline did not ap. 
pear. Munster still looked fidgety and annoyed. 

As for m^^self, 1 was torn by sensations to which my little heart 
had hitherto been a stranger. 1 felt on the brink of a precipice, 
down which all that 1 held dear was disappearing. 1 could not eat, 
1 could not say my tasks, 1 could not think. VAhat was going to 
happen? 1 asked myself wildly again and again. 

At two o'clock, when we were summoned to dinner, no sight of 
Madeline. But by this time some hint of the truth was forcing itself 
upon me. 

A whisper had passed round the school— “ Madeline Graham is 
going away!’" 

Going away? Whither? To that far-distant, that mysterious 
land whence she had come, and whither 1 might never follow her? 
Going away forever! Passing westward, and taking with her all 
that made my young life beautiful and happy. Could this be? 

1 shall never forget the agony of that day. 1 have had blow^s 
since, but none harder. 1 have felt desolation since, but none 
deeper. 

After school, 1 hung round the house, haunted every spot where 
she might be expected to appear. 1 yearned to hear the truth from 
her own lips 1 paced to and fro like a criminal awaiting his sen- 
tence. 1 could not bear the sight of the other boys, but kept to the 
secret places, moody and distracted. 

Quite late in the evening, 1 wandered into the garden— a favorite 
resort of ours. The sun had sunk, but his slowly fading tight was 
still tinting the quiet place, and the shadows of trees and bushes 
were still distinct upon the ground. 

1 had not been here long when 1 heard the foot 1 knew, and, 
turning, 1 beheld my little friend hastening toward me. 

She was pale, but otherwise composed, and said at once, 

“ Have you heard that 1 am going away?” 

1 stammered something, 1 know not what; it must liave been 
inaudible, 1 had a sharp, choking sensation, and drooped my looks 
from hers. 

‘‘1 have just got a letter from my father. 1 am to go back home 
immediately. See!” 

So saying, she placed in my hand the small inclosure which she 
had received from. Munster in the morning. Seeing my puzzled 
look, she exclaimed: 


THE MASTER OF THE MTHE. 


11 


You may read it.’' 

1 (lid read it, in one quick, paintul ^^lance. 1 remember every 
word of it now. It was written in a large, bold band, and ran as 
follows: 

“My ow*n darling little Madeline,— -You will hear from 
the good people with whom you are living that a great change has 
taken place, and that you must come home at once. Wish a kind 
good-bye to all your friends in England; perhaps you may never see 
them again. Come without delay to your loving father, 

“ Roderick Graham.” 

Prepared as 1 had been for the blow, it did not tall so heavily as 
it might have done. 1 struggled with my feelings, and choked 
down a violent tendency to cry. 

She perceived my consternation, and was herself moved. But 
there was a quick, strange light in her eyes, as if she were con- 
templating something far away. 

“ 1 have prayed many a night that my father would send forme,” 
she said, thoughtfully; “and now he has done so, 1 scarcely feel 
glad. 1 am afraid there is something wrong at home.^ Shall you 
be sorry, Hugh, when 1 go?” 

Ac this open question i broke down utterly, and burst into a vio- 
lent sob. 

She put her hands in mine, and looked earnestly into my face. 

“ 1 thought you would be sorry. None of them will miss me so 
much as you. We have been great friends; 1 never thought 1 
could be such friends with a boy. 1 shall tell my father of you, 
and he will tike you, too. Will you kiss me, Hugh, and say good- 
bye?” 

1 could not answer for tears; but I put my arms round her neck, 
and I did kiss her — a pure, true, loving boy’s kiss, worth a million 
of the kisses men buy or steal in the broad world. 

My t(;ars moistened her cheek as 1 did so, but she did not cry 
herself. 

She was altogther calm and superior, bowing down to my boy- 
hood, compassionating and cherishing me; but in all possibility 
sharing little of my intense personal passion. She was nearer 
'womanhood than 1 to manhood (girls always are more mature than 
boys); and she took my worship in gentle state. A queen, kissed 
by a loyal subject, could not ofter her cheek more royally than lit- 
tle Madeline offered her cheek to me. 

Yet her manner was full of strong affection, too. She would 
miss me, 1 felt sure. 


THE MASTER OE THE MIKE. 


U 


]d the midst of my agony, 1 found words to inquire how soon 
our dreaded parting was to take place. What was my astonish- 
ment to hear that she was going to leave Munster’s at once. 

“ There is a ship to sail in two days, and 1 must go away to Liv- 
erpool to-morrow, early in the morning. My poor father! There 
is something very wrong indeed, and it will be many a week before 
we meet, though the ship should sail ever so fast.’’ 

As 1 write, recollection darkens, the sun sinks behind the little 
garden; the little shape fades away, and it is dark night. 1 seem 
to remember no more. 

But what is this that gleams up before me? 

It is the faint gray light of dawn. 1 liave been in a very dis- 
turbed sleep, and am awakened by a harsh sound in the distance. 
It is the sound of carriage wheels. 

1 start up; it is daylight. 

I hear a hum of voices in the house below. Without awakening 
any of my companions in the room, 1 creep to the window, and 
look out. 

How chilly looks the cold damp world outside! How pitiless 
and cold lie the dews on the leaves all around! 1 shiver, and my 
heart aches, 

A traveling-carriage stands at the door, and a sleepy-eyed coach- 
man yawns on the box. 

Hush! yonder from the house-porch comes Mrs. Munster, arid by 
her side the little figure that 1 love. 

The proud spirit is broken this morning, and the little eyes look 
soft and wet. Madeline clings to her protectress, and nods adieu 
to the servants, who flock around to bid her farewell. 

She does not look this way. Does she think at all of the poor 
friendless boy whose heart she has filled with her beauty, and 
whose eyes aie watching her so wildly from the curtained bedroom 
window up above? 

The coachman cracks his whip, the horses break into a trot, tne 
little one leans out, and waves her handkerchief until the carriage 
rounds the corner, and is hid from view. 

Madeline! Little Madeline! 

I have fallen upon my knees by my bedside, and am passionately 
kissing the lock of hair 1 begged from her last night. My heart 
seems breaking. All the world has grown darK for me in a moment. 

To what new trouble is this that I am about to waken, now that 
the one star of my life’s datvn has faded away? 


THE MASTER OF THE MINE. 


13 


CHAPTER 111. 

AFTER TEN YEARS, I BEGIN LIFE IN EARNEST. 

The prologue over, the drama of my life begins. There is al- 
ways a prologue of some sort, in which the keynote of life is gen- 
erally struck for good or evil, pleasure or pain. Mine is the 
episode of Little Madeline. Much of the spirit of what has been 
told will survive in the events which 1 am now about to narrate. 

Madeline Graham faded at once and forever out of my boyish 
existence. 1 neither saw nor heard from her directly; but some 
months after her arrival in her distant home, there arrived a won- 
derful parcel, full of dried fruits, nuts, and other foreign edibles, 
addressed, in the hand 1 knew, to “ Master Hugh Trelawney,” at 
Munster’s. My school-mates laughed wildly on its arrival. 1 tore 
it open, expecting to find some message in writing, showing me 
that 1 was not forgotten. There was not a line. With a somewhat 
heavy heart, 1 distributed the more perishable fruits among my 
school-mates, reserving a very little tor myself — for 1 had no heart 
to eat. 1 stored up many of the nuts in my trunk, till they were 
quite moldy and rotten. When 1 was obliged to throw them away, 
1 seemed to cast away at the same moment all my hope of seeing 
my dear little love again. 

JNo other message— no other gift— ever came; though I wrote, in 
my round, boyish hand, a little letter of thanks and kind wishes. 
All grew silent. Little Madeline might be lying in her grave, far 
over the lonely waters, for aught 1 knew to the contrary. 

1 remained at Munster’s until 1 was fourteen. In all these years 
1 never foigot Madeline, never ceased to mention her name every 
night when 1 prayed by my bedside, never relinquished the thought 
of some day sailing across the ocean, and looking on the dear bright 
face again. 

This intense and solitary passion became, if 1 may so express it, 
the secret strength of my life. It brightened the coarse and in- 
digent experience of school-life, filled it with tender and mysterious 
meanings and associations; it made me inquiring and tender, in- 
stead of hard and mean; it determined my tastes in favor of beauly, 
and made me reverence true womanhood wherever 1 saw it. In a 
word, it gave my too commonplace experience just the coloring of 


14 


THE MASTER OF THE MINE. 


romance it neecied, and made the dry reality of life blossom with 
simple poetry, in a dim religious h'ght fiom far away. 

What wonder,' then, if, at fourteen, 1 found myself reading inlag- 
inative books and writing verses — of which early compositions, be 
certain, Madeline was the chief and never-wearying theme. 

1 had taken tolerable advantage of Munster’s tuition, and was 
sufficiently well grounded in the details of an ordinary English 
education. 1 had, moreover, a smattering of Latin, wdiich, in my 
after struggle for subsistence, turned out very useful. 1 should 
have progressed still further under tlie care of my school master, 
but at this period my father died, and 1 found myself cast u^xin 
the world. 

It is not my purpose—it is unnecessary— to enlarge on my own 
private history, and 1 shall touch upon it merely in so far as it 
affects the strange incidents in which 1 afterward became an actor. 
Things were at this point when 1 one morning received the startling 
intelligence that my father was dead, and that 1 was left alone in 
all the world. The first feeling which the news produced in me 
was one of veiy confused and dubious sorrow. Of late years, 1 had 
seen very little of my father. Since 1 had come to Munster's 1 had 
been left there, never even going home for my holidays as other 
boys did. Munster’s was my home, and to all intents and purposes 
Mr. and Mrs. Munster were a father and mother to me. Still, for 
all that, the knowledge that 1 had a father in some remote quarter 
uf the globe, who paid for my maintenance, and cnme to Munster’s 
about once in six or eight months to spend an hour with me, had 
been a source of some satisfaction, and caused me now, for a short 
time at least, to deplore his loss. 

Then came other and more complicated thoughts. If 1 had no 
longer a father to pay for my maintenance, what was to become of 
me; for, as far as I knew. 1 had no other relation in the world? 
Puzzled by these thoughts, and seeing no solution to them, 1 could 
do nothin ir but wait in eagerness and dread for what was to follow. 

The next morning, when 1 was dressing, Mrs. Munster came into 
my bedroom and handed me a jacket with a crape band on the lett 
arm ; she also pointed to a cap which she had brought in with her, 
aud said, 

“You must wear this one now, Hugh.” 

Then she turned, bent her kindly eyes upon me, and kissed my 
forehead and murmured, “ my poor boy.” 

1 ventured to inquire whether 1 was to see my poor father in his 


THE MASTER OF THE MIKE. 


15 


coflan or to follow him to the jijrave. The tears came into the 
woman’s eyes, and she took my hand. 

“ You will never see him again,” she said; “ never. He died in 
Ameiica, and was buried before we received the news. Bui you 
are a brave boy,” she added, ” and must not grieve. It is sad for 
you, my dear; but trouble is sure to come sooner or later. If it 
comes when one is young, so much the better, for one is better able 
to bear it.” 

“ Mrs. Munster,” 1 said, piteously, ” what is to become of me?” 

The c:ood lady shook her head. 

‘‘ 1 don’t know, my dear,” she replied; “your poor father has 
not left you a sixpence. Hugh,” she added, suddenly, ‘ ‘ have you 
any relations?” 

“No,” 1 replied, “ not one.” 

“ Are you sure?” she continued. “ Think, my dear.” 

1 did think, but it was of no use. My brain would not conjure 
up one being to whom I could possibly lay any claim. 

“ No uncles, or aunts or cousins?” persisted Mrs. Munster; when 
suddenly 1 exclaimed — 

“ Yes, Mrs. Munster; now I remember, I’ve got an aunt. At 
least, 1 had an aunt; but she may be dead, like father.” 

“ Let us hope not,” said Mrs. Munster. “ Well, my dear, tell me 
what she is like, and where she is to be found.” 

“ 1 don’t know what sbe is like,” I replied. “ 1 never saw her.” 

“ Never saw her?” 

“ No; she never came near us; but I’ve heard father speak about 
her. She was my mother’s sister, and her name is Martha Pen- 
dragon, and she lives at Cornwall.” 

“ Martha Pendragon,” repeated Mrs. Munster. “ Is she married?” 

1 reflected for a moment, then 1 remembered having seen letters 
addressed to “ Mrs. Pendragon,” and 1 said as much. 

“ And where does she live?” 

“ St. Gurlott’s, Cornwall.” 

Mrs. Munster wrote it down. 

“ ‘Mrs. Martha Pendragon, St. Gurlott’s, Cornwall.’ It looks 
promising, as I dare say St. Gurlott’s is a very small place. Make 
yourself as contented as you can for a few days, my dear. 1 will 
write to the lady and ask her what she means to do.” 

1 could do nothing else but wait, and 1 accordingly did so; 
though i found it utterly impossible to take Mrs. Munster’s advice, 
and preserve a contented frame of mind. 

My exceedingly hazy recollections of my aunt’s communications 


16 


THE MASTER OE THE MINE. 


were by no means such as to inspire confidence. I began to ask 
myself, for the first time, why it was she had never been permitted 
to visit my mother in her home; why my mother, who was evi- 
dently fond of her sister, had never made a journey into Cornwall 
to see her; and, above all, why my aunt had never come to visit 
my own mother when she was dying? Thus 1 speculated tor four 
days, at the end of that time 1 saw Mrs Munster receive a letter, 
open it, read it, and glance strangely at me. 

“ It is from your aunt, my dear,” she said; then, looking at the 
letter again, she added: ” She your aunt, 1 suppose?” 

” From Mrs. Pendragon?” 1 asked. 

“Yes,” she replied, with a strange smile, “from your Aunt 
Martha.” 

1 wanted to hear more, but no more came. Mrs. Munster again 
turned her attention to the letter, and began studying it as intently 
as if she were carefully working out some abstruse mathematical 
problem. Presently, hei husband came into the room, and she 
handed him the lettei. My curiosity received a fresh stimulus when 
I saw him start at sight of it, read it twice, and then glance, as 1 
thought, halt pityingly at me. 

“ 1 suppose it’s all right,” he said, turning to his wife; “ the boy 
must go.” 

She nodded her head thoughtfully. 

“ It seems a pity, doesn’t it, after the education he has had?” she 
said to her Husband; then, turning to me, she added,” Let me 
see, Hugh, how old are you now?” 

1 replied that 1 was fourteen. 

“.And are you sure you have no other relations except this—this 
Aunt Martha as she calls herself?” 

1 replied that during the last tew days 1 had been racking my 
brain incessantly on that subject, but without avail 

“ 'Well,” she said, “ 1 suppose your aunt Martha is belter than 
nobody, my dear— she seems a good-natured sort of person, and is 
quite willing to give you a home; but it seems a pity to lake you 
from school before your education is complete, and if we could 
find another relation who would let you stay here it would be so 
much better for you. 1 will write again to your aunt, she may 
know of some one though you do not— your father’s relations for 
instance; but if she does not — why, the only thing you can do is to 
go to Cornwall.” 

1 accordingly had to wait a few more days, at the end of which 
time another letter was received from my mysterious relative. This 


THK MASTER OF THE MIKE. 


17 


time it failed to bring with it disgust or amazement, and conveyed 
only disappointment. 

“ Your aunt tells me she is your only relative on your mother’s 
side,” said Mrs. Munster, ” and your father’s family she knows 
nothing about. She has fixed Thursday as the day on which you 
are to go to her, therefore, my dear child, I see no help for it; you 
must leave us!” 

Thus it was settled. On the Thursday morning 1, accompanied 
by my small stock of luggage, started on my travels, and saw the 
last 01 Munster’s. 


CHAPTER IV. 

JOHN RUDD, POET AND CARRIER. 

Munster's was situated in the suburbs of Southampton. Tt was 
arranged, therefore, that 1 should journey by a small steamer as 
far as Falmouth, and thence by road to St. Guilott’s-on-Sea. 1 was 
conducted to the boat by Mr. Munster. On arriving at Falmouth, 
after an uneventful passage, 1 was met on board by a rough -look- 
ing person, who informed me that he had been deputed by ” Missus 
Pendragon ” to convey me and my belongings to St. Gurlott’s. 

What manner of man he was 1 could scarcely tell, beyond realiz- 
ing the fact that he was of tremendous height, that he wore a white 
beaver hat, and that his figure was wrapped in an enormous frieze 
coat which reached to his ankles. He gave a glance at me, and then 
said in a peculiar pipy voice — 

‘ICome, lad, gie’s the tip about your boxes, and we’il move on; 
the mare’s got a journey afore ’un, and we’m be t nawt be late!” 

1 moved aft, and pointed out to him my little hunk. He looked 
at it in much the same way as a giant might look at a pebble, put 
it quietly under his arm, and moved ofi again, inviling me to fol- 
low. We crossed the gangway, and came on to the quay. Here 
we found a lar.ge van, and a fat sleepy-iooking roan horse. The 
wagon was rooted with black tarpaulin, and on the side was painted, 
in large white letters, 

‘‘John Rudd, Carrier, St. Gurlott’s. 

On coming up to the vehicle, m}^ conductor paused and disposed 
of my trunk, then, turning to me with a ” Come, young master, 
jump in,” he gave me a lift whicn summarily placed me inside and 
on the top of my box; then, before 1 had time to recover myself, I 
felt that the wagon was jolting along. 


18 


THE MASTER OE THE MIKE. 


What the day was like, and what sort of a prospect we were 
passin^^ through, i had not the remotest idea; the tarpaulin and 
the enormous figure of the driver completely shutting me in from 
the world. 1 waited for awhile, thinking, perhaps, my companion 
might turn communicative and make some suggestion as to my 
better disposal; but none came. He sat like a log, and, beyond a 
few disjointed exclamations to the horse, uttered not a sound. 

An he evidently had no intention whatever of taking the slightest 
further notice of me, 1 thought it best to approach him. 1 accord- 
ingly shouted “ Hi!” several times and gave him a few vigorous 
pokes in the back; but neither of these attempts pr^ducihg the 
slightest eftect, 1 concluded he must be asleep, 1 accordingly 
swung off the van behind, and,^ running beside the horse, hulloed 
to him from the road. 

This trick told better. Mr. Rudd, who seemed, indeed, to have 
become oblivious of the world, gradually turned his face toward 
me and gazed at me for a time with a vacuous stare. Then he 
pulled up the horse with a jerk. 

‘‘ The Lord preserve ’eel” he said, “ what’s the lad doin’ thar?” 

I explained that 1 had swung out of the wagon, because it was 
nol pleasant inside, and added, 

‘‘ Have you got room up there for two, Mr. Rudd?” 

Instead of replying to my question, he gave a chuckle, and said, 

” You’in a smart ’un: Mr. Rudd, eh? Now, haw did you come to 
knaw that thar’, young master, eh?” 

1 explained that 1 Lad concluded from his appearance that he 
must be the master of the van, upon which ‘‘John Rudd ” was 
painted; but he only chucaled again and piped: 

” You’m a little ’un to be such a scholaid!” 

As 1 saw he was about to become fossilized again, 1 hastened to 
repeal my former question. Mr. Rudd gazed abstractedly at the 
seal and then at me. 

” Mayn’t 1 come up,” i said, ” it's so close inside the van, and I 
would rather ride beside 3^ou, Mr. Rudd?” Then, without giving 
him lime for a refusal, 1 leaped up and nestled beside him. 

Mr. Rudd made no protest—he simply said, ‘‘ Move on, mare,” 
and the mare moved on forthwith. 

We had lett Falmouth behind us, and w^re moving cumbroush’* 
along the high-road. Looking to the right and to the lett 1 could 
see nothing but undulating sweeps of land, bleak and barren, with 
the stony highway stretching before us, and winding about, ser- 
pent fashion, until it was lost to view. We were traveling west- 


THE MASTER OF THE MINE. 


19 


ward, evidently, and, as far as prospect 'went, we might be going 
forward into the Desert. There 'was not a cart or a horse or human 
being to be seen anywhere; and the onl}^ sound was the rattle of 
the 'wagon, as it passed along over the rough road. 

It was past midday, and the sun was as hot as it had been any 
day that summer. As 1 felt it scorching my face and head, I 
looked at my companion, and marveled again. Kis huge ulster- 
coat was buttoned up to his chin, and his great round face was 
shaded by his broad felt hat. He was by no means a bad -looking 
man, and he was still young— only five-aiuTthirty, or thereabouts. 
His skin was tanned and weather-beaten, and his eyes were fixed 
upon the mare with his habitual dreamy stare. 

Finding it was useless to expect him to talk, 1 sat for a time qui- 
etly by his side, watching, with some amount of interest, the rough 
ana stony track we were following; then, when he had covered a 
mile or so, the mare went along at a walk, and 1 leaped lightly into 
the road and kept pace beside her. 

My change of position once more aroused my companion from 
his trance, he turned his eye slowly upon me, and said, 

“ I reckon you knaw a deal?” 

1 replied, modestly, that 1 knew a thing or two. 

” 1 wonder naw,” he said, ” whether you can writeV* 

1 answered with some decision that 1 certainly could, at which 1 
thought his face tell. 

“Poetry, naw?” he inquired. “ Warses, like?” 

1 replied that though 1 was able to write a capital hand, 1 hnd 
only once or twice aspired, to original composition, at which he 
chuckled delightedly; then, fixing his eyes with a fascinated glare 
upon my face, he repeated in a high shrill voice the following 
lines : — 

“ To Missus Pendragoii, who’s always so pleasant, 

John Rudd, of St. Gurlott’s, brings this little present. 

May her life be as sweet as best sugar can be, 

And the only hot water be mixed wi’ her tea ! 

“ What do you think o’ that?” he asked, anxiously. 

“ Very good,” 1 replied. “ Where did you read it? In a hook?” 

“I didn’t read 'un, master, I wrote ’un,” he replied. “Least- 
ways, 1 should ha’ wrote ’un if 1 could write. Naw, you hii a 
smart chap, p’r'aps you could take them lines down?” 

“ Of course I could,” 1 replied. Whereupon 1 produced a pen- 
cil from my waistcoat pocket, and, asking M r. Rudd to repeat the 
verse again, 1 transcribed it on the back of an old letter. 


20 


THE MASTER OF THE MIKE. 


When 1 handed up the paper to Mr. Kudd, his face became posi- 
tively gleeful. 

“ You’re a smart chap,” he repeated, “ nowt much doubt o’ 
that.” 

” Do you make much poetry?” 1 asked. 

He nodded his head slowly. 

” A goodisn bit,” he replied; ” leastways, 1 should if I’d alius a 
smart ’un like you at hand to lake ’un dowm. But I’m naw hand 
at setting dawn at it, and it dawn’t alius keep in my head. ’Tis a 
gift,” he continued. ” It all began when 1 were a lad, a-drivin’ up 
and dawn Falmouth way wi’ father. Then i used to hear the old 
wagon go ‘ turn to turn ’ alawng the road, and the warses they came 
and kept time. Lord! to think o’ the thousands of bootiful pomes 
I ha’ made: they’d make a wallum; and I’ve got ’em all here in 
my head, thick as bees in a beehive, all a-buzzing together, one atop 
a’ t’other.’' 

” Do you live at St. Gurlott’s, Mr. Rudd?” 

“ Iss, young master; 1 drives this here van three times a week to 
Falmouth and back.” 

” Tiien perhaps I’ll be able to take down some of your poems for 
you. 1 am going to live there, too, you know!” 

This idea pleased the drowsy giant immensely. He was about 
to expatiate upon it, when a heavy rain-drop failing on his hand 
brought him back from the clouds. 

” Lawd love the lad!” he exclaimed, ” how we be a-loitering. 
Here, jump up, young master, we’m got a good twelve mile afore 
us yet, and a black night prawmising to come.” 

1 look the hand which he extended to me, and which looked like 
a giant’s paw, and sprung up to my seat beside him. 

” Hurry up, Martha,” he said, ” get on, old garl,” and the mare’s 
slow walk broke into a trot, which caused the wagon to rattle and 
shake, and my teeth to clatter in my head. 

The prospect still continued bleak, but it was now not quite so 
desolate. To tlie right and left of us still stretched the bleak moor- 
land, but now it was broken up by green hillocks and belts of 
woodland. Here and there on the meadows were cattle grazing, 
while at intervals were whitewashed cottages with little gardens 
running down to the roadside. From time to time we rounded 
some quiet bay, and caught a glimpse of the sea. Presently, far 
ahead of us, 1 saw clustering houses, from the midst of which arose 
a church spire. 

” What is that?” 1 asked. 


THE KASTER OF THE MINE. 


21 


He seemed to know by instinct what 1 meant, for he replied 
without taking his eyes oft the horse. 

“ Thai, young master, be Craigruddock. Well stawp there for 
a bit of summai to eat aud drink, and to gie the mare a rest.” 

When we entered the village of Craigruddock our appearance 
caused no little stir. John Itudd was evidently well Known— for 
as the lumbering wagon went rattling dowm the little street, shock- 
headed children came peeping out of the door-ways, aud here and 
there a peasant woman made her appearance, and nodded cheer- 
f ?jlly to us as we went by. For each and all John Kudd had a 
good-humored grin, which 1 thought broadened a little as the wagon 
was pulled up with a jerk before the door of the inn. Here, after 
some little trouble we got something to eat, a few boiled eggs, and 
some home-baked bread. When the horse had been rested, w^e 
started again on our journey. 

The warm diiy was succeeded by a cold evening, and with the 
darkness had come rain. 1 was glad to follow John Rudd’s exam- 
ple, to wrap myself well up in my overcoat, before 1 again took my 
seat behind the mare. We jolted on again, covering what seemed 
to me an interminable space. The darhness rapidly increased, the 
rain continued to fall, and worn out with fatigue, 1 fell into a fitful 
doze. 

1 was dimly conscious of the wagon rolling on, of John Rudd 
making occasional disjointed remarks, rhythmical in character, to 
which he evidently expected no reply, and on certain stoppages, 
when John mysteriously disappeared, and returned refreshed and 
strengthened for his work 

At length, however, John Rudd’s voice aroused me indeed. 

“ Wawk up, young master,” said he; ‘‘ we ’m gettin’ pratty nigh 
your place.” 

1 roused myself and looked about me, but there was nothing to 
be seen. Darkness encompassed us on every hand; the wind was 
sighing softly, making a sound like the distant murmur of the sea. 

Presently the wagon stopped. The carrier jumped down, and 
waited for me to do the same; then he gave a j)eculiar whistle as 
be went round to the back of the wagon to haul out my trunk. 

The whistle had its effect. The darkness was suddenly penetrat- 
ed by a light, which seemed quite close to us, and a man’s voice 
called out in a broad country dialect, 

” He that you, John Rudd?” 

Iss, mate,” returned Rudd. “You katch hold o’ the young 
gentleman. 1 ha’ gawt the bawx.” 


22 


THE MASTER OE THE MIKE. 


“ Be this the lad?'’ asked the voice, as 1 felt a heavy hand laid 
upon my shoulder. 

“Iss.” 

“ Waal, my lad, you be welcome to St. Gurlott’s!” 

The hand kept hold of my shoulder and led me along. The next 
thing i became conscious of 1 was standing upon the threshold of 
an open door, and of the voice of my guide, saying, heartily, 

“ Yar he be, Martha!” 

Then another voice, that of a woman, answered, 

” Lawd love the lad; let’s look at ’uii!” and then there was si- 
lence. 

1 found myself standing in the middle of a quaint Cornish kitch- 
en, gazing upon my newly found friends. The individual who 
had led me into the kitchen, and who turned out to be my uncle, 
was a tall broadly built man, dressed in a red-stained suit of coaise 
flannel, said suit consisting merely of a shirt and a pair of trousers. 
His hands were big and broad and very red, his head was thickly 
covered with coarse black hair, and he spoke the broadest of Corn- 
ish dialect in a voice of thunder. Having finished my inspection of 
number one, 1 glanced at number two— namely, my aunt. She 
was a comely-looking woman of forty, very stout and motherly in 
appearance. She wore a cotton dress, a large coarse apron, and a 
curious cap, not unlike the cotj^s so popular in Brittany. 

My amazement at the sight of these two individuals was so strong 
that I could scarcely force my lips to utter a word; but if my sur- 
prise was great, theirs seemed greater. After the first glance at me, 
they looked uneasily at one another, the genial smiles faded troin 
their faces, and the words of welcome died upon their, lips. 

A pleasant interruption to all this was John Kudd, who at this 
moment came in with my trunk upon his shoulder and placed it 
down on the kitchen floor, then wiped his brow and opened his 
overcoat. 

“ It’s martal bad weather you’m brought alang wi' ye, Mr. 
Rudd,” said my aunt; ” yar, ha’ summat to keepofi the rain.” 

She handed him a glass of ale, which he drank. 

” Thank ye, missus,” said he, drawing the back of his hand 
across his mouth. Then he made a dive into the voluminous folds 
of his coat and produced a packet. 

‘‘ That be for you, missus,” said he; ” a little present, wi' John 
iRidd’s respects; tea and sugaar, wi’ a suitable inscription o’ my 
own making.” 


THE MASTER OF THE MINE. 


23 


“ Thank you, Mr. Rudd,” returned my aunt, taking the pacKct. 
” You’m vary kind.” 

” Read the warses, missus; read the warses!” said Mr. Rudd, 
whereupon she proceeded to do so. 

It was a proud moment for John Rudd; he seemed to expand 
with pleasure. And though to all intents and purposes he was gaz- 
ing upon Mrs. Pendragon, he rolled one eye round my way, as if to 
watch the effect upon me. When the reading was done he smiled 
affably, while my uncle brought down his open hand heavily upon 
his knee. 

‘‘ Waal done, John, waal done!” cried my uncle, heartily; while 
another voice, one which 1 then heard tor the first time, said, 

‘‘ Oh, Mr, Rudd, what beautiful poetry you do write!” 

At the sound of the voice all eyes, mine amongst the rest, were 
turned upon the speaker, whom I discovered to b? a little girl some- 
what about my own age, or perhaps a trifle younger, so pretty, and 
so quaintly dressed, she looked like a little Dresden china shep- 
herdess. 

” Wha, Annie!” said my aunt. 

” 1 declare I’d forgot all about ’eel” my uncle added. “ Come 
yar, my lass, and say how do ye do to yer cousin!” 

At this the little girl came forward, and, gazing earnestly at me, 
timidly offered me her hard. 

Suddenly, John Rudd, who had been fumbling about his coat 
again, produced another packet, which he this time handed to my 
cousin. She opened it, and found it contained a brightly colored 
shawl and a sheet of foolscap, on which some lines were penned. 
Knowing Mr. Rudd’s weakness, Annie proceeded to read the lines: 

“ To Annie Pendragon, who charms all beholders, 

John Rudd, of St. Gurlott’s, sends this for her shoulders; 

That she’ll always be happy, in sunshine and in flood, 

’Tis the wish of her friend and admirer, J. Rudd.” 

Having read the verses, Annie fell to volubly admiring them and 
the shawl; but Mr. Rudd, feeling the praise too much tor him, 
gleefully took his departure. He paused at the door, however, to 
give me a last look, and to express a wish that we ^ould become 
better acquainted. 

The moment ho was gone, attention was again concentrated upon 
me. My aunt look a good look at me, trying to find traces of my 
mother and father in my face. My uncle d discovered 1 wan both 
wet and cold; while Annie said. 


24 


THE MASTER OF THE MINE. 


“ \Yby don’t you give him his supper, mother; I’m sure he must 
be hungry after that long ride wi’ Mr. Rudd.” 

Annie’s suggestion was adopted, and we all sat down to supper. 
"While 1 ate, 1 had leisure to look about me. The kitchen was 
large and homely in the extreme, with a clean stone-paved floor be- 
neath and great black ratters above, from which flung flitches of ba- 
con, bundles of tallow candles, and divers articles of attire. The 
ingle was great and broad, with seats within it, formed of polished 
black oak, and the fire burned on the open hearth. In one corner 
was a recess, with curtains, containing a bed, which 1 afterward 
discovered was to be mine for the night. 

Very little was said or done that evening. It 1 was astonished 
at the sight of my relatives, they were equally so at the sight of me. 
A sort of constraint came upon us all. 1 was not sorry to find that 
they were very early people, and that at ten o’clock they retired, 
and left me to make myself as comfortable as 1 could in the press- 
bed in the kitchen. My head was aching, partly from fatigue and 
partly from excitement, and no sooner did 1 lay it upon the pillow 
than 1 fell into a sound sleep. 


CHAPTER V. 

ANNIE. 

1 WAS awakened next morning to the sound of voices in the 
chamber, and, looking forth from my sleeping-place, I saw my 
uncle, seated in his stained flannel clothes, devouring a substantial 
breakfast of tea and home-baked cakes of my aunt’s making, waited 
on by little Annie, who, seen in the bright morning light, looked 
even cleaner and neater than she had looked the night before. 

“ Lawd love ’ee, little woman,” my uncle was saying, ” who 
put that sort o’ nawnsense into your head! 1 warrant Tawm Pen- 
ruddock, or some other gomeril, ha’ been up here clacking to moth- 
er. Dawn’t go dawn the mine naw more? Why, the mine’s bread 
and bu'iter, vittles and drink, to you and me!” 

‘‘ Tom Penriuldock says ’taint safe, father,” returned Annie; 
” and Tom ought to know', for he’s worked there ever since he w'lis 
born.” 

” He knaws no more than this chunk o’ bread, littl6 woman. 
He’s the idlest chap o’ the gang, Tawm is. There, dawn’t 
worrit. The Lawd’s under the earth as well as above it, and’ll 
take care of father, never fear.” 


THE MASTER OF THE MINE. 


25 


Unseen in nay comer, 1 slipped on my clothes; but, by the time 
1 had done so, my uncle had lett the cottage. Annie was still there, 
and she took me to a little bedroom upstairs, where I washed, and 
bruslicd my hair. Descending again to the quaint old kitchen, 1 
found my aunt, just come in from feeriing the poultry. She gave 
me a kindly nod; then, sitting dotvn at the table, drew me gently to 
her, and, pushing the hair od; my forehead, looked thoughtfully 
into my face. 

“ Let me look at 'ee by daylight, lad! Ay, 1 was right— you be 
as like your poor father as one pea is like another. Lawd forbid 
you should e’er be half as clever!” 

” Why not, mother?” asked Annie, who was looking on wilh a 
smile. 

“Because he were too clever to sattle down. He rambled up 
and dawn like a moor pony, till the Lawd took ’un, and ne’er made 
himself a home; and when he died, there was none of his kith and 
kin near him to close his eyes. Thar, lad, sit dawn and take your 
breakfast. We’ll try to mak a man of ’ee, for my poor sister’s sake.” 

This sudden allusion to ray dead parents, coupled with the 
strangeness of my surroundings, brought before me more forcibly 
than ever the utter forlornness of my position; and sent the tears 
starting to my eyes. 1 fancy Annie noticed this, for she quickly 
changed the subject, asked her mother for some more hot scones, 
and put a chair for me at the table. 

This diversion gave me ample time to recover myself. Feeling 
heartily ashamed of my exhibition of weakness, 1 swallowed the 
lump in my throat, dashed the back of my hand across my eyes, 
and determined from that hour forth to remember that tears did not 
become “ a man.” 

The breakfast w'as appetizing — perhaps from the very strangeness 
of it. Never before in my life had 1 had placed before me, at eight 
o’clock in the morning, a meal of hot scones, boiled potatoes, and 
milk; yet 1 mightily pleased my aunt by disposing of enough to 
keep me going for the rest of the day. 

“ Ah, lad!” she exclaimed, as her bright eyes kindled with pleas- 
ure, “ you’s gawt some Cornish blood in ’ee, after all, and can eat 
your vittles with a relish. You’m got no proud stomach, my lad, 
and will be a man like your uncle before Jawng.” 

The breakfast being over, my aunt and Annie busied themselves 
with “ setting things to rights;” and, feeling somewhat in the way, 
1 took my cap and strolled out, to find out if 1 could what sort of 
a country 1 had been landed in. 


2G THE MASTER OF THE MTHE. 

The kitchen door opened directly into the “ back yard/’ as they 
called it. and here 1 found the poultry leisurely picKing up the 
grain which my aunt bad given them before bieakfaat. Here i 
found, too, a mongrel puppy, a sort of cross between a collie and a 
greyhound, it seemed to me, which, the moment 1 made my ap- 
pearance, came wriggling, serpent -fashion, about my feet. 

1 passed through the yard, round to the front of the house, the 
puppy following close at. my heelSo The front of the cottage was 
very trim and neat; and there was a very small garden here, which 
was tolerably well cultivated: I afterward learned it belonged to 
Annie, and owed its pretty appearance entirely to her hands. It 
was a curious illustration of the mingling in her of the useful and 
ornamental. She was passionately fond of flowers, and two thirds 
of her little garden w as devoted to them, while in the other thirp 
were beds of mustard and cress, radishes, and celery, with which 
she regularly supplied “ relishes for the table. 

Having made a rapid survey of the little garden, 1 turned my 
eyes on the prospect before and beside me. The cottage, which 
stood alone on a slight eminence, was faced immediately by the 
high road which swept past and curved on to the village, which 
lay some quarter of a mile to the left. Immediately before me w^as 
what seemed to me a dark expanse of moiass, bleak and barren 
enough, and dotted here and there with clumps of stunted trees. 
Beyond was the sea, calm, cold, and glimmering like steel. 

] strolled carelessly along the road, amusing myself from time to 
lime by throwu'ng a stick and trying to teach the puppy to retrieve. 
A couple of hundred yards from the cottage 1 came to an iron gate, 
surrounded by a plantation of fir-trees, and with a long avenue lead- 
ing 1 knew not whither. Here I paused, and, without thinking, 
threw the slick as far as 1 could up the avenue. But the puppy 
crouched at my feet, and declined to stir. So 1 opened the gate and 
went in. 

1 had not got many yards when a sharp voice arrested me. 

“ Here, 1 say, you!'' it cried. “ 'What are you doing here?’" 

1 looked up and saw a boy of about my own age, dressed like a 
young gentleman. He had black hair, black eyebrows that came 
close together, and a hanging lip. 1 saw at once, by his dress and 
manner, that he w^as no miner’s son. 

“ Look here, you’re trespassing, you know,’' he continued; then 
suddenly, “ Why, you don’t belong to St. Gurlott’s. What’s your 
name?” 

1 told my name, and added that 1 was stranger, having come to 


THE MASTER OE THE MINE. 


27 


the village only last night to live with my Uncle and Aunt Pendrag' 
on. In a moment his tace changed; a contemptuous sneer curled 
his lip as he said, 

“ Old Pendragon’s boy, eh?” Then, “ What do you mean by 
wearing those clothes? 1 thought you were a gentleman!” 

His tone, moie than his words, roused all the latent pride of my 
nature. Flushing to the temples, 1 turned on him. 

” 1 am as much a gentleman as you,” 1 said. 

” What!” 

‘‘ Oh, I’m not afraid of you! Do you know what they’d do 
with you where 1 come from? They'd thrash 3^ou, and send you 
to bed, to learn better manners.” 

He clinched his fist, and advanced threateningly toward me. 
Then, looking at me from head to toot, and finding that at all 
events 1 was his superior in point of physical strength, he changed 
his mind. 1 whistled up the puppy, and walked away. 

VYhen 1 reached the cottage again, I came face to face wu’th 
Annie. 

” Where have been?” she asked. 

I told her 1 had been rambling idly about. She nodded brightly. 

“ I’ve got work to do to-day,” she said; ‘‘ leastways not much. 
If you like, I’ll ask mother to let me come out and go for a walk.” 

” Do,” 1 said; and off she fiew. 

She was a long time gone — so long that 1 began to fear the per- 
mission had been denied. She came at length, however, when 1 
saw the cause of her delay. Her print frock had been exchanged 
for a stout gown. She wore a pair of silk gloves, and a hat which 
was evidently intended for Sundays only. As my eye wandered 
over these things, she blushed and tried to appear unconscious, 

‘‘ Which way shall we go?” she said. 

1 was so perfectly unacquainted wdth the district that the ques- 
tion seemed to me absurd. 1 left the choice to her. 

” Which way do you like best?” 1 said. 

She pointed with her hand. 

‘‘ 1 like to go there,'' she said, ” to walk on the shore. ” 

” On the shore?” 

” YTes; don’t you see that glittering over there? That’s the sea, 
though it looks like a bit of the common now it’s so still. 1 like 
to go there and walk on the shore, and see the ships pass along, 
and listen to the washing of the waves on the stones.” 

We accordingly started ofl: across the moorland toward the sea, 
and after a mile’s walk reached the cliffs. 


2S 


THE MASTER OF THE MIKE. 


Wild and desolate, they, overhung the ocean, which was at high 
tide. A narrow path through the rocks led down to the water’s 
edge. Descending it, with the sea-gulls hovering over us, we reached 
the shore, and found there a sandy creek arid a* solitary wooden 
house. We looked up; the crags rose above our heads right up 
into th(! blue heaven. Then we turned our faces toward the sea. 

“ It isn’t like the sea, is it?” 1 asked, as we stood side by side; 
” it looks like a big broad river.” 

” JVbio/' she assented: ‘‘ but it isn’t alw^aj's like this. The waves 
are sometimes as high as houses, and they roar like wild beasts. 
Then there’s been ships, big ships that go to India, broken up here 
on the rocks, and drowned men and women have been cast asliore.” 

“ Have you see?i them?” 

” ]Mo; I’ve only heard tell of them. When the winds are blow- 
ing like that, and the wrecks come, mother and me stop in the 
house to pray for father !” 

” My uncle? Why, he’s a miner.” 

‘‘Yes; but he’s one o’ the life-boat men, too, ’cause he’s so 
strong. Look at that wooden house; that’s where they keep the 
life-boat.” 

In following the direction indicated by her pointing finger, my 
e 3 "e fell upon something else besides the house which contained the 
lii e-boat: a rude coble lay floating in the water a few yards from 
where we stood. It was attached to an iron ring driven into the 
rocks. 

” Whose boat is that?” 1 asked 

” Oh, that belongs to John Kudd, the carrier; him that brought 
you to our house.” 

” Why, what does he do with a boat?” 

‘‘ Nothing; only he found it drifting in from the sea. Then the 
master took it away from him, saying it was his, and offered it for 
sale; as nobody wanted it, he got it back again by paying a little 
to the master. ” 

” And what does he do with it now?” 

” He goes out fishing sometimes, when he’s got the time. Some- 
times he gives us a treat. He took me out in it once.’' 

” Did you like it?” 

” Oh, yes!” 

‘‘ Would you like to go again?” 

” What— now?” 

‘‘Yes, now. Suppose we take the boat and pull out for a bit; it 
would be good fun— better than staying here.” 


THE. MASTER OF THE MINE. 


29 


She hesitated. There was evidently such a difleience in the size 
of John Rudd and me. 

“ Do come,” 1 urged; “ the oars are here ready, and 1 can pull 
as well as John Rudd.” 

Still she hesitated, hut yielded finally. We pushed out the boat 
together, and 1 pulled away out on to the dead calm sea. How 
pleasant it was there, with the sun pouring its golden beams upon 
us, and the water smiling around and gently lapping the boat’s 
sides! Annie took off her gloves, and trailed her fingers in the 
water; then she leaned over and looked down into the emerald 
depths below, while my eyes again swept the prospect inland. 

Everything was distinguishable from the sea, the low-lying flats 
stretching black and desolate beneath the warm summer sty —the 
village, which, from my present point of vantage, seemed but a 
handful of houses, thrown in a hollow, just beyond the cottage 
where destiny had placed me. 1 also perceived now that there 
were numerous other cottages scattered about the morass, and final- 
ly, that there was one large turreted mansion rising up from a belt 
of gieenwood. 

What house is that?” 1 asked. 

” That? Oh, that is the master’s house.” 

” The master?” 

“Yes: Mr. Redruth, the master of the mine. Besides that,” she 
added, ‘‘ he’s the master o’ the whole place.” 

” Does he live there?” 

” Yes; a good part of the year.” 

” Anybody else?” 

” The mistress.” 

” That’s all?” 

” Yes; except at holiday times, when the young master comes 
home from school. He’s home 

Having a suspicion in my mind, 1 asked her what the young 
master was like, and she gave me an accurate description of the 
boy 1 had encountered a few hours before. 1 said nothing just 
then of my adventure; and, after this, we fell to dreaming again. 
Annie looked down into the sea, while 1 watched the shore, past 
which we were lazily drifting. Suddenly ncy eye was attracted to 
a huge black mass, which rose like an ominous shadow between me 
and the horizon. 1 asked Annie what it was; and she replied, 

“The mine!” 

To her the word had a world of meaning, to me it had none. It 


30 


THE MASTER OF THE MlHE. 


simply avrakened in me a keen desire for knowledge, which 1 im- 
mediately wanted to gratify. 

“ The mine!” 1 said. 1 never thought about the mine before, 
or we might have gone to see it. We’ll puli in and go now; shall 
we?” 

To my amazement, she half rose from her seat, and put out her 
hands, as if to stop me. 

‘‘ No, no!” she cried, ” we won’t go there— not to the mine!” 

Her face was white, and she was trembling, though she was 
wrapped in the sun’s rays as in a warm mantle of gold. 

‘‘ What’s the matter, Annie?” 1 asked. ” Are you afraid?” 

” Yes,” she said, ‘‘ 1 am afraid of it, because 1 know it is cruel, 
It is like a great black mouth; it seems to ask you to come down, 
and then it crushes you and you die. I have seen strong men like 
my father go down into it happy and laughing, and then afterward 
1 have seen them brought up dead, all so black and changed and 
dreadful. Oh, don’t talk about it; 1 can’t bear it!” 

She shivered again, and covered her eyes with her trembling 
hand, as if to shut'out the sight. 

During this conversation, 1 had been pulling steadily onward, so 
that the boat was now opposite the cliff surmounted by the mine. 
1 turned the boat’s bow shoreward; then, after a stroke or two, 1 
rested on my oars and looked up. 

We were now right below the cliff, and the view from our point 
of vantage was strange indeed. 

On the very summit of the crags 1 saw the mining apparatus 
overhanging the sea. First, a chimney, smoking loftily at the top; 
then another, smoking less loftily half-way down; then, lower 
down, almost close to the sea in fact, a third smoking chimney, 
connected with what appeared to me to be a sm^ll mining office. 
On one side of the cliff, tall ladders were placed, to enable the 
miners to ascend from, and descend to, the shore; and he must 
have a sure toot and a strong head who could comfortably tread 
those ladders, round by round, the sea roaring under him and 
almost flinging its spray after him as he went higher and higher. 
Taking in the whole external apparatus in one view, chains and 
I)ulleys, chimneys and cottages, posts and winding machines, 
seemed to be scattered over the whole lace of the clift, like the 
spreading lines of an immense spider’s web, while in some parts 
mules anfl their riders were troUing up and down a rocky track 
where the pedestrian visitor would scarcely have dared to tread. 


THE MASTER OF THE MINE. 


31 


1 turned giddy, even at sight of it. 1 rubbed my eyes and looked 
again at my cousin. 

Her trembling agitation had passed oft, and she was looking at 
me. 

“ it was silly of me to talk like that,’' she said; “but ] can’t 
help it.* {Sometimes, when 1 think o’ them poor men that have 
been brought up, and remember that father is there, it a’most 
makes me scream!” 

“ But there’s no danger,” 1 said, “ now 

“There’s always danger!” she returned. “Tom Penruddock 
said so, and I told father, but he only laughed. Ah, but I’ve seen 
others laugh too— them as is lying now in the church-yard!” 

This conversation, sad as it was, had its fascination for me. It 
made me want to know more about the mystery of the mine. What 
1 saw, indeed, was not the mine itself, but only its outer machinery. 
The main shaft, Annie told me, opened down into the solid earth, 
from the body of the cliff, and was covered by a trap door, from 
which dizzy ladders led down into the subterranean darkness. 


CHAPTER VI. 

FIRST GLIMPSE OF THE MINE.— UNDER THE SEA. 

It must not be supposed that my uncle and aunt, although they 
had adopted me, could afford to allow me to eat for very long the 
bread of idleness. Had it been necessary, they would willingly have 
shared with me their slender means; but it was not necessary. 1 
was fourteen years of age, 1 had received a good education, and 1 
was in every way fitted to earn my bread. But what could 1 do? 
My inclination was for the sea. 1 longed to become a sailor; not 
because 1 had any particular love for ships, but because I had 
some wild idea that it might ultimately be the means of bringing 
me to Madeline. Besides, i must own that 1 was not exactly proud 
of my newly found relations and a home which was so different to 
Munster's. Sometimes at night when 1 sat furtively watching my 
uncle smoking his pipe in the ingle, and my aunt darning the stock- 
ings, 1 fell to wondering what the boys would say if they saw 
them, and my cheeks burned with shame. It was on one of these 
evenings that 1 ventured to express my wish to go to sea. My aunt 
threw up her hands in horror. 

“ Lawd love the lad!” she cried; “ if he be’ant like his father 


32 


THE MASTER OF THE MINE. 


a’ready! You’d like to gaw to say, would ye? to wander over the 
face of the earth and die, like 3^our father did, without a roof to 
caw ver your head? A sailor! La wd love ’ee, and why would you 
be a sailor?” 

1 stammered something about wishing to work for my living, 
when my uncle cut my explanation short by patting me on the head 
and saying, 

” You’m a good lad, I’m glad to hear ’ee talk saw; but there’s 
no cause for ’ee to gaw to say. You’m a-comin’ to wark wi’ me, 
Hugh!” 

“ In the mine!” 1 exclaimed in delight, for my strong desire to 
go down the shaft was growing; but my uncle shook his head. 

” Is aw. naw, lad; the mine be only for big coarse men like me; 
a slip of a lad like j^ou wdll be better whar you’m gawing— inta 
the aw^fice.” 

‘‘ The office!” 1 repeated, my ardor being considerably damped. 

‘‘ Have ’ee fixed it all, Tawm?” asked my aunt. 

“ Iss, mother, 1 fixed it wi’ the master this fawrenoon. Hugh 
can gavv' on Monday and begin.” 

Thus it will be seen that my destiny was mapped out for me. 
On the Monday 1 began my duties as under- clerk, wdth but little 
satisfaction to myself bej^ond the fact that 1 contributed six shil- 
lings a week toward the household expenditure. Thus my new 
life began, a life wffiich promised to be uneventful enough. At 
first 1 chafed somewhat; but Time, thht healer of all things, brought 
solace to me. As months rolled on, the memory of Munster’s be- 
gan to grow dim; and when 1 thought of Madeline it was of some 
lovely vision seen in a dream. 

Monotonous as my days promised to be, 1 soon managed to in- 
fuse a little pleasure into them, principally with the aid of my 
friend and ally, honest John Rudd; for we soon became close 
chums. He conceived a great respect for me, partly on account of 
my superior education, and partly because 1 rendered him such 
valuable assistance in the transcription of his poems. He placed 
his boat entirely at my disposal, also lent me his gun, a rusty old 
Joe Manton, which 1 kept in secret, and with which I used to amuse 
myself in the evenings when my work was done. 

But the one great fascination for me was the mine. It was be- 
coming a sort of “ Frankenstein,” haunting me by night and by 
day; 1 saw it before me as 1 sat writing in the office, and when 1 
was asleep at night 1 saw it in my dreams, opening its huge black 
jaws and preparing to crush away some hapless life. The more I 


THE MASTER OF THE MIHE. 33 

heard of it, the stronger grew my wish to explore tor myself those 
dark bowels of the earth. 

Again and again I had beeged my uncle to take me down, but 
he refused. At last, however, one Sunday morning, he came to me 
and to my intense delight said, 

“ You can gaw dawn the mine t’-day, Hugh. 1 be gawm’ dawn, 
ril tak’ ’ee wi^ me.” 

Excitement is welcome to all boys, and it was especially welcome 
to me; but there was one cloud on my sunshine, when 1 looked up 
and saw that my cousin Annie was as white as a sheet and trem- 
bling violently. 

” Don’t, father, don’t 1” she said, piteously. 

My father laughed. 

‘•Lor a mussey, Annie, what a frawhtened little woman you’m 
gettin’!” he said. “ Wha, you ain’t like a miner’s lass, Annie. We 
must mak’ the la 3 a man, nawt a milksop. Haw then, Hugh, 
hurry up and get ready, we’m nawt got much time to lose!” 

The first thing to be done was to attire myself in one of my 
uncle’s mining suits of fiannel, and possess myself of one of his 
broad felt hats. This was soon done. 1 was now a man inwall but 
years, and 1 managed to cut a tolerable figure in my uncle’s clothes; 
indeed, when I made my reappearance in the kitchen, he declared, 
with a nod of approval, that 1 looked every inch a miner. It was 
a proud moment tor me: now, for the first time, 1 felt my manhood 
upon me, and i laughed with my uncle at Annie’s pale cheeks and 
my aunt’s sad eyes. 

My uncle handed me half a dozen candles, which he told me to 
put into my pocket, then, with a merry nod to the womenfolk, we 
started. ' 

It was no easy matter to gel to the entrance of the mine, not be- 
ing able to go straight to the shafts as in the case of mines on level 
ground. First of all we had to make our way to the counting- 
house, in which 1 sal at my daily toil. The way was long and 
difficult to travel, on account of the accumulation of mining gear 
we had to pass; long chains stretched out over belt cranks, w'^ooclen 
platforms looking like battered remnants of wrecks, yet supporting 
large beams of timber and heavy coils of rope. Here there was a 
little creaking sbed, there a broken down post or two, and there 
again we had to wind round by the rocky path amidst chains and 
cables and ascending loads. 

I, having to travel this road every day of my life, was well ac- 
customed to it, and 1 accordingly follow^ed on my uncle’s footsteps 
2 


34 


THE MASTER OF THE MINE. 


without much feeling of curiosity or joy; but when we had passed 
the counting house, ascended the cliff, and gained the trap-door en- 
trance to the mine, my heart began to beat with anticipation. 

Here we both paused. 

“You’ll keep a strawng head,” said my uncle, looking at me. 
“ ’Twill be a bad business if you begin to tramble like our Annie. 
Are you sure you arn’t afraid, lad?’’ 

“ Wot a bit,’’ 1 returned; then, looking at the ladder which was 
set at the entrance of the mine. 1 asked, “ Shall 1 go first?” 

“ Bide a bit, bide a bit, lad!” he returned. “ Gi’s one o’ tham 
candles.” 

1 did so, whereupon he lit it and stuck it into my hat, then he lit 
another for himself; after this he began to descend the first ladder, 
and I followed him. 

Ihe first object 1 was conscious of was the huge beam of a steam- 
engine, which worked on my right, alternately bowing and rising, 
and heavily straining at the deluge of water which it lifted. On the 
other side, through boards, the chinks of which admitted just light 
e*Tiough at the toot of one of the ladders to show the passage, 1 saw 
the loaded tubble or bucket, rushing past its descending companion. 

We were now between two shafts, descending from stage to stage; 
the daylight was completely gone, and we depended solely on our 
Candles, which threw but a faint light into the gloomy abyss below. 

After descending two nr three ladders, which were almost per- 
pendicular, we came to a platform, and^made a halt. 

“ Waal, lad?” said my uncle, holding his dickering candle above 
his head, and looking into my face. 

1 laughed, and hastened to assure him it was all right, though, in 
reality, 1 began to feel some of my cousin’s misgiving. We rested 
a second or two, the halt indeed being made more for me than for 
my guide; then my uncle took another lighted candle, and stuck it 
into my hat. 

“ JMaw, lad,” said he, “ come on wi’ a will; lay hawld o’ the sides 
o’ the ladder, and ha’ a care.” 

1 promised to obey him, and we recommenced our descent, he go- 
ing first and 1 following. We went down first one ladder and then 
another, till again we came to a platform and rested. 

“ What’s below?” 1 asked of my uncle, who was again regard- 
ing me curiously, trying to detect if possible any sign of fear or 
shrinking in my face. 

“ What’s belaw, lad?” he said. “ Wha, the water drained from 


THE MASTER OF THE MINE. 


35 


all the mine, the pumps at wark pumping it awt, and p’raps a cart- 
load o’ ratting human bawns.” 

AVe descended a couple more ladders and landed again, this time 
to traverse one of those side galleries in which the pit abounded. It 
was about seven teet high, but so narrow that two persons, if thin, 
could just squeeze past one another. The only light now was that 
aftorded by our candles, which flickered in the hot, sick, damp 
vapor which floated about us. 

The fetid air of the place was beginning to tell upon me, my 
breath became labored, the perspiration streamed down my face, 
while mud and tallow and iron drippings were visible on my 
clothes. My uncle, tvho was similarly bespattered to myself, but 
who was breathing more freely, recommended a rest. 1 sal down on 
the floor while he set himself to replenish the candies, which had 
nearly flickered out. 

Silting thus in the stillness, 1 became conscious of a strange moan- 
ing and soughing sound. After listening intently, 1 asked my uncle 
what it was. 

“It’s the Sae,” he returned; “it be rolling up thar above our 
heads.” 


CHAPTER Vll. 

A VISIT OF INSPECTION. 

Thus began my knowledge of the mine; from that day forth my 
interest in it deepened, and it haunted me like a passion. Its dark- 
ness and perils had a fascination for me, and 1 was not content till 
1 had explored every cranny and familiarized myself with the min- 
ing art or science. Eager for information, 1 read every book on 
the subject that 1 could borrow, and in a short time X could have 
passed a pretty stiff examination as an engineer. 

1 must -now pass over, at one swift bound, a lapse of eight years. 
During that time, I had exchanged the duties of cleik for that of 
assistant overseer, and then, on the death of Mr. Redruth, for 
those of overseer-in-chief. 

Behold me, then, at twenty-two yeais of age, the mainstay of the 
Pendragon household; changed somewhat, for — 

“ Nature doth subdue itself 
To what it works on, like the dyer’s hand;” 

rough, robust, full of strength, and its rude pride. In my twenty- 
second year occurred an event which was destined to exercise no 


36 


THE MASTER OP THE MINE. 


little influence over whole future life. As 1 approach the 
chromcling of this event, my heart beats and my hand trembles, 
and the fitful passion of those far- oil days awakens troublously 
again. 

1 was standing one day on the clifis, close to the mouth of the 
mine, when L saw two figures coming from the direction of the 
village. One was my cousin Annie, now a comely young woman 
the other was young George Redruth, whom 1 had scarcely set eyes 
upon since the time of his father’s death. 

They were talking earnestly, and did not seem at first to notice 
me; but presently 1 saw Annie give a startled look in my direction, 
and afterward they approached together. Now, I don’t know how 
it happened— it was instinct, I suppose, or something of that sort— 
but never, from the moment of our first meeting as boys, had 1 
been able to regard George Redruth with any feeling but one of ex- 
cessive initation and dislike. His flippant, patrc-nizing manner had 
something to do with it; so, perhaps, had his good looks, for his 
worst enemy could not have denied that he was superbly handsome. 
As 1 glanced at bis pale, beautifully formed' face, at his slight grace- 
ful figure, at his elegant dress, 1 was painfully conscious of rny 
own physical inferiority. Though 1 was strongly built and not ill- 
favored, wind and weather had worked their will on me, and 1 was 
rough, 1 knew, as my daily occupation. 

He strolled up carelessly, swinging his cane, and smoking a cigar. 

“ Ah, Trelawney,” he said, with a nod; “ your cousin Annie has 
been telling me that there are complaints, again, ab^ut the outlying 
shafts of the mine. Bo I’m going down to have a look round.” 

“ Very w^ell, sir,” 1 replied, wondering in my own mind why 
Annie bad chosen to make herself the mouth-piece of the men. 

” 1 suppose it’s safe enough?” he said, after a moment. ” You 
know% though 1 am a mine-owner, 1 don’t know much about the 
business; 1 used to leave all that to the governor.” 

“ It is only right,” was my reply, ” that you should judge its 
safety for yourself. If anything happened, you would be respon- 
sible.” 

” 1 don’t know about that,” he saiil, sharpl}^-; “ 1 pay you for 
superintending the work, and if there’s danger—” 

‘‘ There is!'’ 1 interposed. 

Well, then, 1 you for facing it and reporting upon it. One 
can’t be both emi3lo3xr and servant loo!” 

1 was about to retort somewhat angrily, for the manner of 'ys 


THE MASTER OF THE MIKE. 


37 


speecli was even more insufteiable than its matter, fvhen 1 met 
Annie’s entreating eyes, and refrained. 

“Mr. George, she said, quickly, “is anxious that nothing 
should go wrong.'’ 

“ Of course 1 am,” cried the young man, with a curious laugh, 
“ I know what flooding the mine means— any amount of expense, 
perhaps ruin; tor if the sea once got fairly in — whew! it would he 
a bad job for me.” 

“ And for the men,” 1 said, frowning. 

“ And for the men, of course; but it's their living, and no dqubt 
they know how to look after themselves. Be good enough to make 
all ready, Trelawney, for I’m going down at once. 1 suppose there 
is a dress handj^?” 

1 answered in the affirmative, and walked oft toward the office. 
Looking back over my shoulder, I saw him glance after me, and 
then, with a contemptuous laugh, say something to Annie. My 
blood boiled angrily, and my cheeks grew crimson. 1 could have 
turned back and struck him in the face. 

Close to the office, 1 found my uncle, who had just come up from 
underground, and wffio was covered with the rust of the copperas 
earth. I told, him the young master was going down, and he was 
delighted. 

“ He's a brave lad. Master Jarge,” he cried, “ a fine brave lad! 
I’ll gaw wi’ 'un, and shaw 'un where the wall be breaking down.” 

Presently, Redruth came along, and followed me into the office, 
where several woolen costumes were hanging. He laughed 
as he transformed himself into a miner. When the trausfoiiu 

"*■ Eal- 

w^as complete,, he still looked the gentleman; and, in spite of 
sidf, 1 still fell the irritating sense of my own inferiority. 

My uncle led the way down the trap, showing infinite care and 
tenderness for the young master, who followed him, while I came 
last. The earth soon swallowed us, and the only light we had was 
the light of the candles stuck upon our persons and in our hats. 

From ladder to ladder we went, till we reached the central plat- 
form, where we paused to take breath. Then down we crept again, 
till we reached the lowest galleries, and became conscious of the 
gnome-like figures at work in the submarine darkness. My uncle 
still led the way, stopping from time to time to pilot Redruth over 
awkvvurfi stones and dangerous trap-holes. Our progress was now 
very slow. V\ alking, st Doping, crawling, climbing, descending, we 
proceeded; now^ crossing black abysses, thinly covered with quak- 
ing plunks; past wild figures kneeling or lying, and laboring with 


38 


THE MASTER OE THE MINE. 


short pick-axes at the ore; and as we went, the roar which had been 
in our ears from the beginning deepened, while the solid rocks 
above us seemed quaking in the act to fall. 

At last my uncle paused and wiped his brow. We were ail three 
now completely disfigured —with earth, mud, tallow, rust, and iron 
drippings. 

“ Where the deuce are we now?” asked the young master. 

” Whar, Master Jarge?” repeated my uncle, with a friendly grin. 
” Hight dawn under the !Sae,” 

Redruth glanced at me. 

” How' far down, Trelawney?” 

” Twenty fathoms under the sea level, sir, and three hundred 
feet, cr more, out beyond low water mark.” 

“ Well, where’s ihe damage? It all seems snug enough.” 

He was certainly very cool, though he had not been underground 
more than once or twice in his life; and 1 wondered to myself 
whether his insouciance came from bravado or sheer stupidity. 

Come this way. Master Jaigel” said my uncle, crawling for- 
ward, until we reached a narrow space with just room for two of 
ns to stand abreast. Suddenly, we found ourselves ankle deep in 
water, and at the same time thick drops like heavy rain fell from 
the rocks above us. 

My uncle reached up with nis hands, and touched the roof, 
which was partially fortified with wood and cement. 

“ Ah" last night, Master Jarge,” he explained; 

been te’* water were streaming in like a fall.” 

^s he spoke, the roar deepened to a crash, and we could distinct- 
ly hear the sea grinding on the pebbles, right above our heads. It 
seemed momently as if the whole fabric of the rock would break 
in, under the flux and reflux of the roiling \yaves. 

1 saw Redruth start back, and glance toward the gallery down 
which we had come. But he recovered his sang-froid in a mo- 
ment. 

“The deuce!” he muttered. “How thick is the ceiling here, 
Trelawney?” 

“ Six feet at the thickest, sir; at the thinnest, where you see the 
wooden plug, not more than three.” 

Young Redruth looked up again, and taking a candle from his 
person, examined the rock. It was actually percolated with sea- 
water oozing through the solid granitic mass, and covered with 
green and glistening ooze; but through all the dampness and 


THE MASTER OF THE MIKE. 


39 


sliminess llie stripes of pure copper ran in rich bars, forming pait 
of the finest and most precious lode in the whole mine. 

“ Why, it's almost solid ore,” he said. 

” Iss, Master Jarge,” returned my uncle, “but us can’t go no 
further this ways without flooding the shaft. It would be warlh 
thousands o’ pounds to gaw cn, and ’twill cost a heap to keep tight 
and safe as it be.” 

“ Is that so, Trelawney?” 

“ Yes, sir. We must build up this part of the gallery and have it 
closed. 1 can’t keep the men from using their picks where the ore 
runs thickest, even when erery inch of stuff they loosen is bringing 
them nearer to their death.” 

The young master made no further remark just then, but con- 
tinued his examination of the other parts of the mine. In several 
otiier places tha roof was dangerous. My uncle pointed out the 
various unsafe portions, and led the way from gallery to gallery, 
until the tour of inspection was complete. 

At last we reascended to the sunshine. How bright and daz- 
zling all seemed after that subaqueous darkness! Redruth seemed 
in a brown study. Hot until he had washed himself and reassumed 
his ordinary attire, did he find his tongue. By this time, my uncle 
had returned to his labors down below, and we two were left alone. 

“ Is there anything else you wish to report?” asked Redruth, 
sharply, as we stood together at the ofiice door. 

“ Nothing more than 1 have already reported in writing.” 

“ Well, what was that?” 

“ The whole mine wants repair. Putting aside the outlying gal- 
leries, where the sea may enter at any minute, the engines and 
machinery need replacing, the ladders are rotten ; in fact, everything 
is in the last stage of decay; and no wonder, seeing that scarcely a 
penn}'’ has been spent on it within mj^ memory.” 

He frowned, and bit his lips; then he looked me contemptuously 
from head to foot. 

“You are a pretty fellow, a very pretty fellow. You want t6 
ruin me, eh?” 

“ Ho, sir; but 1 want to insure the safety of the men.” 

“ Pshaw! You are a croaker, and know little or nothing of the 
matter,” he said, turning on his heel. 

“ At any rate, sir,” 1 returned, following him, “ you will have 
the outer galleries filled up, at once? If you don’t. I’ll not answer 
for the consequences.” 

“ Who the devil asked you?” he cried. “ Your place is to re- 


40 


THE MASTER OE THE MIKE. 


port, not to advise. As to ceasing to work the outer galleries, 1 sup- 
pose you know that the richest lode of ore runs there, and that the 
inner portion of the mine is almost barren?” 

“ 1 know that; but-—” 

“ But you prefer mutiny and disatteclion to study of your em- 
ployer’s interests? 1 tell you flatly, 1 don’t intend lo'listen to such 
nonsense. Thanks to you, the mine at present yields little or no 
profit, and 1 am in a fair way to become a beggar.” 

He saw me smile incredulously, as 1 cried: “ Then you will do 
nothing?” 

” 1 will do nothing under your advice, for 1 don’t trust you. A 
gentleman in whom 1 have the utmost confidence will be here to- 
morrow morning. You will accompany him down the mine, and 
you will show him what you have shown me. 1 shall then be guided 
by his advice, not by yours.” 

With these words he walked away. 

Soon after sunrise the next morning, as 1 sat in the office at the 
mine-head, T was visited by the person to whom young Redruth 
had alluded. He was a thin, spare, sandy-haired young man of 
about thirty, with a mean type of countenance, and an accent which 
was a curious compound of Cockne^isms and Americanisms. He 
ha.1 indeed, been born within the sound of Bow-Bells; hut having 
spent a portion of his manhood in the United States, he aftected the 
free and easy manners of a Yankee citizen. 

He gave me his card, on which was printed the words — 

EPHRAIM 8. JOimSOM, 

Ciml Engineer^ 

Betliesda, 

State of Hew York, 

. 1 glanced at the name, and then took a good look at the owner. 
He wore a showy tweed suit, a glaring red necktie witli a horse- 
shoe pin, and a light billycock hat. Altogether, his appearance 
was not prepossessing. 

He informed me, in a high 'thrill voice, that he had been in- 
structed by Mr. Geoige Redruth to go down the mine, and report 
on its prospects and condition. 

You’ll find its condition bad enough,” 1 said quickly. 

” Maybe 1 shall, and maybe 1 sha’u't,” he answered. ” I don’t 
want^o prejudice my mind, young man; not that you could do it 


THE MASTER OF THE MIHE. 41 

it you tried. Guess 1 liaven’i been three year on the Shoshone ter- 
ritory for nothino. ” 

He pronounced it “ nothink,” but that is neither here nor there. 
1 saw at once from his manner that he had come with a pr jcon- 
ceiyed o[)iniou, and that nothing he mi^ht see would be likely to 
make him side with the men against their master. However, L 
treated him as civilly as possible, and, when he had assumed tbe 
necessary dress, we made the tour of inspection together. When 
we came'to the outlying gallery, above which the sea was thunder- 
ing, he trembled a good deal and gave ether signs cf agitation, and 
he did not recover himself until he had regained the open air, which 
he did after a very perfunctory visit indeed. Once or twice on the 
way, as we ascended the ladders communicating with the abyss, he 
grew giddy, and 1 had to watch him carefully, fearing he might 
fall. All this, it may be guessed, did not increase my respect for 
Mr. Ephraim S. Johnson. 

He did not altogether recover his equanimity until he had. 
sloughed his miuer’s dress and put on his own radiant apparel. 
1‘hen, curious to know what he would say to his employer, 1 ques- 
tioned him: 

“ Well, Mr. Johnson? Did 1 exaggerate wlum I said that the 
mine was unsafe?” 

He answered me sharply and impudently, but averting his small 
keen eyes from mine: 

“ Excuse me, young man, 1 shall report my opinion to Mr. 
George Kedruth, not to you. 1 don’t mind saying, howevet^that 1 
guesayou did exaggerate, on the whole.” 

Angry at his maimer, 1 could not forbear retorting: 

” Aou didn’t seem to express that opinion when you were dowu 
below!” 

” What do you mean?” he cried, turning crimson. 

“ 1 mean that you seemed rather in a hurry to get back to tlje 
term drina, up here!” 

He did not reply, but gave me a look full of malignity and dis- 
like. Then he walked out of the office, but the next minute he put 
his head in again at ihe door. 

” You think yourself smart,” he said: ” but you’ll have to get 
up early.before you’re as smart as me. 1 mean to do my dmy, 
young man, and so you’ll find afore very long,” 

He left mo with this curious valediction, 1 saw neither Kedruth 
nor Johnson for some days, Then 1 linaid casually that the latter 
liad gone back to London. About a week after his departure. I 


42 


THE MASTER OF THE MIKE. 


saw it publicly anuounced that arrangements had been made with 
George Redruth, Esq., the profiietor, to turn the St. Gurlott’s 
copper -mine into a joint-stock company, the said George Redruth, 
Esq., receiving halt the purchase-money and retaining the other 
half in fully paid-up shares. Nothing was said about the precise 
amount of commission money which went into the pocket of Mr. 
E. S. Johnson, but the name of that worthy was down on the pros- 
pectus as' surveyor and inspecting engineer, and 1 had no doubt 
wdiatever in my own. mind that he had made a very excellent bar- 
gain. 


CHAPTER Vlll. 

I PLAY THE SPY. 

A LITTLE after the establishment of the London company, John- 
son came down to St. Gurlott’s and took lodgings in a farm-house 
in the neighborhood. After what had occurred, 1 expected to re- 
ceive my conge at once, but although the stranger was formally 
installed as resident inspector and supervisor, no attempt was made 
as 3 ^et to remove me from my former position. The fact was, 1 be- 
lieve, that Johnson had too little confidence in his own practical 
knowledge, to say nothing of his own courage, to undertake will- 
ingly the perilous duties of overseer. 

So greatly did 1 resent his presence, however, that 1 at first re- 
solve^o resign; but yielding lo the entreaties of my uncle, and the 
of Annie, 1 remained. 1 soon saw that Johnson wac com- 
pletely in young Redruth’s confidence— was, in fact, his servant, 
spy, and general familiar. Ender his advice, nothing whatever 
was done to amend the condition of affairs in the mine, the fittings 
and machinery of which remained as dilapidated as ever. On my 
own lesponsibility, however, 1 closed up the dangerous outer gal- 
jcries, and forbade the men, on,pain of dismissal, from working the 
ore in that direction. Although Johnson heard of this, and doubt- 
less reported it to his superior, neither of them made any communi- 
cation to me on the subject — just then. 

1 must now turn from the affairs of the mine to my own quiet 
life at home in my uncle’s house — which will lead me, rapidly 
enough, back to ^mung George Redruth. 

1 had noticed for several weeks that some important secret com- 
mumon was going on between my uncle and aunt. What it was 
all ab( ut 1 couldn’t guess, but it was evidently connected in some 


THE MASTER OF THE MIME. 


43 


way with myself. I often caught them looking at me, and, when 
detected, exchanging glances of infinite meaning. 1 was beginning 
to think of asking for an explanation, when accident made me ac- 
quainted with the whole mystery. 

1 had returned home one evening too late for the ordinary tea, and 
was sitting taking mine alone, W'aited on by Annie, as 1 had to re- 
tain to the ofilce again that night, and might probably have to go 
down the mine. I still wore my miner’s dress, but my uncle had 
changed his, and was sitting contentedly smoking on one side of 
the fire, while just opposite to him was my aunt, busily darning 
stockings. 

The meal over, 1 got up, lit my pipe, and wished them all good- 
night. 

“ Don’t sit up for me!” I said, “ 1 shall be late to-night.” 

” Where -are you going to, Hugh?” asked Annie, carelessly. 

“ Back to the office. I’ve got to go down the mine again, too.” 
“Shall you go to the oflBce first,” she asked, “or down the 
mine?” 

1 laughed at what 1 then thought her unmeaning curiosity. 

“ Which do you think 1 ought to do first. Miss Curiosity?” 1 
said. 

“ Go down the mine,’* she answ’ered, promptly; “ then you could 
change those things, and do your accounts comfortable like.” 

“ Upon my word, Annie,” I said, “ there’s a w^orld of wisdom in 
that pretty little head of yours.” 

1 put my arm round her shoulders— gave her a kiss— at which my 
aunt and uncle laughed delightedly. 

“ Good-night all!” 1 said again. “ Annie, 1 shall take your ad- 
vice, and go straight down the mine!” And 1 was off. 

1 had gone only a little way, when 1 suddenly remembered that 
certain account-books which 1 should need that night were in my 
room at the cottage. 1 hesitated a moment— then 1 turned back to 
get them. It was growing rather dark; but that was of little con- 
sequence to me, since 1 could have walked every step of the way 
blindfolded, and, for the descent into the mine, daylight was of lit- 
tle use. 

So 1 strolled slowly back, enjoying my pipe and the freshness of 
the evening air, and when 1 reached the cottage ic was quite dark. 

1 paused before the kitchen window, which was open, for the night 
was sultry, and looked in. 

My aunt and uncle still sat in much the same position they had 
occupied when 1 left them, but Annie was gone. 1 was about to put 


44 


THE MASTEl^ OF THE MINE. 


my head in at the window, and acquaint them with my return, 
when I beard the mention of my own name. 

“Yes,” said my aunt, nodding her head, “ 1 ha’ watched 'em, 
and 1 know Annie favors *flugh, if ever any Jass favored a lad.” 

“ Well, 1 hope you’m rigiit, Martha, old gal,” my uncle re- 
turned. “ He be a good lad, and 1 shall be glad to call him my 
son.” 

1 heard no more— 1 felt like a man who had received a knock' 
down blow, and 1 staggered under it a bit. Annie love me?— the 
old people planning our marriage? It was all so new it took me a 
time to recover. But was it true? Were they right? Did my 
cousin really care tor me? 1 glanced back on all the years we had 
been together, and I concluded that after all it might be possible. 
Certainly, Annie had given no very marked evidence of her love; 
but then she was not a demonstrative gill. A quiet lowering of the 
eyelids, a little pink blush, were more in her line. 

And then of late she had sorely changed. I had noticed that, 
and wondered a bit; now the meaning of it seemed clear, Annie,' 
my little cousin Annie, whom 1 had ever regarded as a sister and a 
child, had developed into a woman and was capable of feeling a 
woman’s love. 

My thoughts turned from Annie to myself: 1 began to analyze 
my own feelings, and to pronounce upon them. Did I love Annie? 
Y"es, in one sense; no, in another. Yet my affection for her was of 
that strong, deep nature that 1 might have mistaken it for love, if 
th^t one all-absorbing episode of ray school-days had never been. 
Even then, after a lapse of years, the thought cf Madeline made ray 
blood tingle in my veins, and my heart beat painfully. Of all this 
the old people knew nothing; they had evidently made up their 
minds that Annie and 1 were exactly suited to one another, and 
ought to be man and wife. Whether or not 1 was glad or sorry at 
this discovery 1 could not tell; my feelings were a strange mixture 
which 1 could not analyze. 

Before 1 had time to think very deeply on the subject, the kitchen 
door opened, and Annie herself appeared on the threshold. Though 
it was dark out of doors, the light in the kitchen showecl her to me 
distinctly. She wore a long black cloak, which she folded tightly 
around her shoulders; its hood covered her head. 

“lam going down to the village. 1 sha’n’t be long,” 1 heard 
her sa3% in answer to her mother’s question. Then she came out, 
closing the kitchen door after her. 

She paused a moment outside; then she hurried away— 1, rather 


THE MASTER OF THE MIKE. 


45 


aimlessly, following her. Slie crossed the high road which led to 
tlie village, and took instead a narrow footpath which led by a short 
cut to the mine. Wondering what could be taking her that way, 1 
continued to follow^ her. 

She quickened her pjce now, almost to a run. When she had 
got about half-way to the mine, she turned oft again, and hastened 
along with increased speed toward Greystock Tower. 

Greyslock Tower was a ruin, consisting of three dilapidated ivy- 
coveied walls and a buttress; it stood on an eminence a few hun- 
dred yards from the sea- shore, and by the superstitious inhabitants 
of the village was supposed to be haunted. Even Annie, 1 htid 
suspected till that night, shared in the popular belief. 1 was the 
ED ore astonished, therefore, to see her going toward it, alone, on a 
Clark night, and as if her \eiy life depended upon her speed. 

Having reached the ruin, she paused, and stood as if listening. 
There was a dead silence all round, broken only by the washing of 
the sea. I crept up in the shadow of the ruin. 

Presently, 1 heaid a peculiar whistle. Annie said softly, 

“ Yes —l am here.’" Then a figure, that of a man, emerged from 
the darkness and joined her. 

My astonishment at all this was so great that for a time I w^as 
utterly unable to move; but, from my shadowy hiding-place, 1 
watched the pair. Who the man was, 1 could not tell, the dMrkness 
completely, concealing his features; but 1 saw that he was taller than 
Annie, and that he was smoking a cigar. 

They stood close together, talking earnestly; but 1 could not 
catch a word of what they said. Piesenlly, they began to move 
away, and 1 deemed it time to interfere. 

In two strides 1 was betw'eeD them — Annie uttered a scream, the 
man an oath. But he stood his ground, and looked into my face. 

It was now pay turn to utter an exclamation. The man was 
young Redruth, the master of the mine. 

The contretemps was so complete that for a moment neither of 
us spoke. Redruth, being the coolest, was the first to speak. 

“ What are you doing here, Trelawney?” he asked, curtl.y. 

“ I am here to take my cousin home, sir,’" 1 replied. 

“ Indeed,” he sneered; ” 1 should have thought you were here to 
play the spy!” 

“ Even ihat would be better than playing the villain,” 1 returned. 

Here Annie, seeing a storm brewing, interfered. 

Hugh, dear Hugh!” she said, plucking at my sleeve. 

But young Redruth now stepped forward. 


4G 


THE MASTER OF THE MINE. 


“ Don’t agitate yourself. Annie,” said lie, coolly, while 1 was 
ready to knock him do\\n. ” And you, sir,” he added, addressinij 
me, “ stand out of the way ; 1 liave business with this young lady, 
and 1 request you to leave us.” 

And if 1 refuse?” 

He raised a small cane ■w’hich he carried and struck me across 
the shoulders. In a moment 1 had wrenched it from his hand, and 
with one well-planted blow 1 would have made him measure his 
length upon the ground, but, with another scream, Annie rushed 
forward and stood between us. 

‘‘You shall pay for this, you scoundrel!” said my master; and, 
withouj another word, he disappeared into the darkness. 

Annie, still frightened and trembling, rushed forward to follow 
him, but in a moment 1 was beside her. 

” You'll come with me, Annie,” 1 said, taking her hand firmly 
in mine. 

By this time, she was crying bitterly. ” Oh, Hugh,” she sobbed, 
‘* what have you done! You will ruin us all— yourself, father, 
and all of us!” 

But 1 took no heed of her, 1 kept my hold upon her, and led her 
back across the meadows to the cottage. 

During the walk, no word passed between us. 1 was silent, ex- 
pecting she would give some explanation of the scene 1 had wit- 
nessed; but as she volunteered none, 1 said nothing. ‘When we 
reached the cottage gate, she paused, and spoke. 

” Hugh,” she said, ‘‘ you won’t tell mother or father—” 

‘‘ No, no,” 1 interru])ted her. ” Don’t fear for me, but I mean 
to look after you in the future, Annie.” • 

” Don’t be hard on me, Hugh,” she said, piteously. ‘‘ 1 meant 
no harm. But it will be better for you and father if 1 speak to the 
young master sometimes.” 

‘‘ You’d best let us manage our own affairs, Annie, and keep 
yourself to the house; always remember that.” 

She dried her eyes and composed herself a bit, and we went in 
together. 

The old couple were astonished, but not ill-pleased at seeing us in 
company. They noticed Annie’s pallor, too, and exchanged looks, 
the meaning of which 1 now knew hill well. 1 dreafled to be ques- 
tioned; so when Annie had gone to her room, which she did pretty 
quickly, 1 explained that 1 had returned for certain little account- 
books, and having met Annie by the way, had brought her in. 


THE MASTER OF THE MIHE. 


47 


Then 1 possessed myself of the books, and hurried back to the oflace 
to. finish my n»ght’s work. 


CHAPTER IX. 

ANNIE'S CONFESSION. 

They were all in bed when 1 got back that night; but as 1 passed 
the door of Annie’s room, 1 fancied 1 heard the sound of sobbing. 
1 knocked softly, but she made no answer; so 1 concluded that i 
must have been mistaken, and that she was asleep. 

The next morning she attended at breakfast as usual. She looked 
a little pale, and now and again glanced uneasily and lather ques- 
tioningly at me. When 1 rose to go, she put on her bonnet, say- 
ing, 

“ 1 am going a bit of the way with Hugh, mother;” and then, 
somewhat to my surprise, she came along with me into the road. 
"When we were fairly away from the houses, and passing across the 
moor, she put her hand on my arm, and said softly, 

” Hugh, dear Hugh, I have been out before this morning. 1 
have seen the young master.” 

1 suppose my face darRened ominously, for she hurriedly con- 
tinued — 

” Hugh, you must not get angry— indeed, you must not. 1 did 
it for the best. I was afraid, after what happened last night, that 
he would dismiss you; and he would have done, but 1 have inter- 
ceded, and now all will be as it was before.” 

‘‘You have interceded tor me!” 1 said. “Then you were 
wrong, Annie; it he wishes to dismiss me, let him. 1 have other 
niean of earning my bread.” 

For answer to this Annie employed a stronger medium than 
words — she cried. Now, tears always disarm me; all 1 could do 
was what 1 did : soothe my cousin, kiss her pretty cheek, call my- 
self a brute, and avow that she was the dearest, sweetest little 
woman in the world. Under this process, Annie came round, and 
smiled sadly up at me through her tears. 

‘‘ You promise,” she said, ” to go on just the same as usual, and 
to lake no notice of what occurred last night?” 

‘‘ 1 will piomise,” i said, ” if you can show me the good of it.” 

” The good of it will depend upon whether or not you care any- 
thing about" me!” she replied. “Just think, Hugh, if you two 


48 


THE MASTER OE THE MIKE. 


quariel again, and arti dismissed, everybody will know why it 
all came about— und my mother and father too. Ah, Hugh, dear 
lingh, for my sake!’' 

She folded her little hands over my arm, and looked up into my 
face like a supplicating child. 

As 1 looked down into her bright eyes, now fast filling again 
with tears, the thought came into my mind to do what her mother 
and father wished me to do. “ Annie,” 1 thought of saying, “ give 
me a right to protect you. Let me call you wife, and 1 will agree 
to all you say.” But something held me, and the golden monient 
l^assed. 

‘‘ All right, Annie,” 1 said; ” don’t worry yourself, little woman. 
1 won’t do a thing that will injure 

For a couple of days or so the master kept away, and things 
went on at the works pretty much the same as usual; but on the 
fourth day he strolled down. He talked a good deal to Johnson, 
but never ad{iressed one word to me. He looked at me, however, 
and the look he gave made me w^onder what strange inttuence Annie 
possessed when she could induce him To keep in his employment 
one whom he so cordially hated. I, however, look no notice, since 
1 had given my promise to Annie, and an onlooker would never 
have guessed that anything sinister wurs going on. 

How^ long this stale of things might have lasted, it is impossible 
to say, but it w^as most unexpectedly and suddenly changed. 

One day my aunt, having a little shopping lo do, and eager ]>^t- 
haps for a day’s outing, determined to go to Falmouth. Slie start- 
ed oh in the morning in John Rudd’s wagon, and left my cousin 
to keep house. 

JNow, it had seemed to me that Annie had looked particulaily 
dull that morning; so, toward afternoon, 1 d<derniined to take an 
hour, and to hurry back to the cottage to see how she w^as getting 
on. 

As I drew near to the cottage door, 1 was astonished lo hear 
voices— the one loud and angiy, the other soft and pleading. When 
1 entered the kitchen, my’’ amazement increased tenfold. 

An elderly lady— none other, indeed, than old Mrs. Redrulh, 
George Redruth’s widowed mother— was standing in the middle of 
the room, while my cousin Annie, crying bitterly, was actually on 
her knees before her! 

Mrs. Redruth had two chaTacleristics, her confirmed ill health 
and her iron will. Her power in the vilinge was great; but slio 
was feared, rather than beloved. Indeed, it was averred by many 


THE MASTEK OE THE 3IIHE. 49^ 

that every hard deed committed by either her husband or her son 
might have been traced to her influence. For the rest, she was a 
tall thin woman, with powerful aquiline features and a face of 
ghastl}'" pallor. 

Amazed at her presence there, 1 entered unceremoniously; but 
both were so intent upon themselves that they were actually unaware 
of my approach. 

The old woman was speaking.® 

“ iour tears don't deceive me,*’ she said. “1 am not a man 
and a tool. 1 am a mother, and 1 know when danger threatens 
my child, and 1 say that you are doing your best to entangle my 
son. But take care. George Redruth shall not be sacrificed; sooner 
than that, 1 will ruin you— do you hear? — ruin youP" 

“ Oh, niy Jadyl” sobbed Annie, “ will you listen?”. 

she returned, “ 1 will not! Listen to when every 
word you utter must be a lie! 1 have seen you with my son. Cease 
to follow him, or I will expose jmu befm*e every soul in the village!” 

She turned to leave the cottage, and came face to face with me. 
She paused abruptly, opened her lips, as if about to speak; then 
she changed her mind, and without uttering a word passed out. 

As for myself, 1 had been too much stupefied to say a word, and 
1 stood now\ like a great bear, looking at my cousin, who, sobbing 
piteously, bad sunk into a chair. Then suddenly, while gazing 
at her thus, it seemed to me that the time had come for me to speak. 

1 went up to her, laised her from the chair, and folded her in my 
arms. 

“ Annie,” 1 said, ” Annie, my dear, let there be an end to this. 
Give me the right to protect you from all this trouble that has come 
upon you lately. Become my wife.” 

She started, and stared at me like a frightened child. 

” Your wife, Hugh?” she said. ” Your wife!” 

‘‘Yes, Annie,” 1 answered. ” My wife— that is, if you care for 
me enough, my dear!” 

At this, she fell lo crying afresh, and clung to me tenderly. 

“Ah, Hugh, dear Hugh!” she sobbed. “ You are the kindest 
and best man in all tlie world, and it is your kindness which makes 
you ask me this now, tor you don’t love me, Hugh.” 

Her words cut me to the heart, for 1 felt their truth. 

“ Perhaps,” 1 said, “ 1 don’t romance as some young fellows 
might, but 1 shall make as good a husband. 1 have always been 
fond of you, Annie, ever since that night, years ago, when 1 first 
came hern and yon gave mo a welcome. Wo havo ever been oxceb 


50 


THE MASTER OF THE MIKE. 


lent friends, haven’t we?— and now tell me it we shall be more than 
friends?” 

She shook her head. 

“ ^^o, Hugh; be what you have always been— my own dear 
brother.” 

“ Is it because you think 1 don’t care for you, Annie?” 

” Ah, no!” she replied. ” Don’t think ii is that. So much the 
better for you, dear, that you don’t love me; for even if it were 
otherwise, we two could never be man and wife.” 

1 looked into her eyes, and 1 thought I read their meaniug. 
Annie did not care for me; her heart was with another man, and 
that man far above her. 

1 think 1 see those who read these lines smiling at my ignorance 
or my folljvand asking, was it possible that all 1 had seen or heard 
awakened in my mind no suspicion of any darker wrong lurking 
in my little cousin’s path? Yes; it was quite possible. Grown 
man as 1 was, I had no experience whatever of the world. 1 would 
have trusted Annie in any company, or in any place, and 1 never 
dreamed for a moment that there could be any danger to one so 
good. 

As my thought travels back to that time, 1 reproach myself again 
and again for my own blindness. What worlds of sorrow it would 
have saved if 1 had been less unsuspicious— it 1 had only loved 
poor Annie morel 


CHAPTER X. 

THE LETTER. 

But after this I watched Annie a good deal, and 1 soon discov- 
ered she had a great^nU growing trouble on her mind. She was 
restless and ill at ease, and once or twice, while 1 observed her 
quietly, i saw tears suddenly start to her eyes. 

Her mother and father noticed this, too; but they attributed the 
diange to quite another cause. They were good, honest folk, who 
could only consider one project at a time; and as tor several months 
past their minds had been occupied solely with the idea of a mar- 
riage bdween Annie and myself, they naturally assumed disagree- 
ments between us two to he the cause their daughter’s depression. 
1 had not the heart to undeceive them. 1 determined, however, to 
spfeak to Annie again, and ask for some further explanation of this 
mystery. 


THE MASTER OF THE Mli^E. 


51 


One atternooii, about three days alter our former interview;! was 
standing at the mouth of the mine, thinking things, when I was 
staitled by the sudden appearance of my aunt. She looked pale; 
rather alarmed ; but ready to become very angry. 

“ Hugh!’" she said, befoie 1 had lime to open niy lips, “ wdiere 
be Awnie?” 

Had 1 been able at that moment to produce my cousin, she would 
certainly have been rated very soundly; whereas, 1 shook my head 
and said, “ 1 don’t knowl” the rising anger entirely disappeared, 
and her face grew paler. 

“ But you’m seen her to-day?” she continued, 

‘‘ No. When 1 left this morning you were all abed.” 

At this my aunt fairly broke down, and moaned between her 
sobs, ‘‘ Oh, Hugh! she’s gone, gone!” 

1 was fairly stunned, and all 1 could do just then was to comfort 
my aunt, who was weeping bitterly. When she was more com- 
posed, 1 asked for an explanation of what had taken place, and she 
gave it. The facts were simple enough. After my uncle and I had 
left tor the mine, my aunt rose, expecting to find the kitchen hre 
alight as usual, and Annie busy making things neat for the day. 
To her astonishment, the kitchen was empty, the ashes in the grate 
were gray, and all was in disorder as it had been on the night be- 
fore. Sho called Annie, but got no answer; she searched the cot- 
tage, but failed to find her; then, concluding that she had gone to the 
village on some errand, she set about doing the work herself. Sev- 
eral hours passed away; and, as there was still no sign of the miss- 
ing girl, my aunt began to grow extremely alarmed. She had 
searched through and around the house with no efiect. She now 
went down to the village and made several inquiries, but with no 
result. Annie had not been seen by any one that day. 

Seriously alarmed by this time, she returned to the house, and 
looked again in Annie’s room. Suddenly, her attention was at- 
tracted to the bed; she looked at it, and found that, although it was 
in disorder, it had not been slepi ic that night. 

Having told her tale, my aunt looked at me, hoping that 1 might 
bo able to say her fears for her child were unfounded. 1 could not; 
the utmost 1 could do was to counsel •silence, and to try to buoy 
her up with hope. This 1 did. 

” It may be all right, aunt,” 1 said; ‘‘ therefore it will be much 
better to keep our fears to ourselves. Don’t say anything to my 
uncle; theie will be time enough to do that when our last hope is 
gone.” 


52 


THE MASTER OF THE MIKE. 


After some little difficulty, she consented to follow my advice, 
and 1 persuaded her to return home. But the day was finished for 
me. After my aunt was gone, 1 could do nothing but think of 
Annie; the worst fears struggled to take possession of me, but 1 
diligently thrust them away. 1 would not believe ill of my cousin. 

About five o’clock, my uncle came up from the mine, and 1 pro- 
posed that we should knock ofl work for the day, and stroll hometo- 
^ gether. My uncle was in singularly good spirits; and during our walk 
home he fiequently checked his mirth, avowing ’twas unnatural, 
and that something ill would come of it. As we drew near to the 
cottage, my heart beat painfully, and when we went in 1 looked 
anxiously about me. 

My aunt w^as moving about preparing tea, and she was alone. 

“ Whar be the little woman?” asked my uncle, as we sat down 
to our meal. 

1 saw my aunt’s face grow very pale, but she turned her head 
away and answered as carelessly as possible, 

She be gawn out!”' 

” Beant she coming in to tae?” 

“Kawl” 

The answer was conclusive, and the meal went on; my uncle 
eating heartily, while 1 w^as scarcely able to sip my cup of tea. 
When the meal was over, my uncle, according to his usual custom, 
went to his seat beside the fire, and lit his pipe. 

He had been smoking for an hour or more, when a scene oc- 
curred which 1 can not recall without pain even now. All signs 
of the meal had been cleared away, -and my aunt, with trembling 
hand, was about to lift dovrn her work-basket from its shelf, when 
a knock came to the kitchen door; then the ddor was opened, and 
in came John Rudd. 

" He had a parcel for my aunt, which he delivered; he chattered 
for a few minutes, then he prepared to go. 

'His hand was on the latch of the door, when he paused and 
looked back. 

” Say, missus,” said he, ** whar be Miss Awnie ga^n to?” 

My uncle looked up curiously; my aunt’s cheeks grew as white 
as new-fallen snow. 

** Whar be she gawn to?” she repeated, helplessly. 

” Iss!” continued Rudd, ‘‘ i seen her this marning i’ Falmouth, 
but she were in a mighty hurry and didn’t see me. She were dawn 
on the jatty, and she went aboard the steamer for Partsmouth. ” 

Mr. Rudd paused, thunderstruck at the ettect of his words. 


THE MASTER OF THE MTFTE. 


53 


My aunt, thoroughly exhausted by the strain that had been put 
upon her that day, sunk, sobbing and moaning, into a chair; my 
uncle, who uacl risen from his seat, stood glaring from one to an- 
other. 

Presently lie spoke. 

“ What be all this about my Awnie?’’ he cried. “ Speak, some 
’un.“ 

My aunt continued to sob, John Rudd stared in a mystiSed man- 
ner at one and all. 

“There’s nothing to alarm anybody,” 1 said; “ iPs all right.” 

But my uncle, who was growing terribly excited, hardly seemed 
to hear me. 

“ If thar be aught wrong wi' my little woman,” he cried, “ tell 
me; 1 ain’t a child to be petted, nor a fool to be kept i’ the dark. 
Speak, tell me what ’tis all about!” 

So we told him all we knew, and, putting this and that together, 
he gathered at least one idea— that his chila had, for some re'ason 
or other, voluntarily left her home. He stood like a man stupefied, 
scarcely gathering the sense of the situation, and dimly wondering 
why his wife received the news so violently. In his simplicity, he 
did not guess, as yet, that Annie’s flight might have its origin in 
secret guilt and shame. 

But when John Rudd was gone, and we were left to ourselves, I 
looked at my uncle and aunt, both so changed within the last few 
hours, and told them my suspicions of George Redruth. To my 
surprise they were received with blank amazement, then with indig- 
nation. My uncle averred that 1 had always disliked the young 
master, and it was but natural 1 should credit him with a dastardly 
deed; but he himself refused to believe for one moment in the 
young man’s guilt. 1 felt convinced of it, however, in my own 
mind; and in order to make sure, 1 determined to go up to the mas- 
ter’s house and ascertain if he were from home. 

The moment my uncle heard of my determination he resolved to 
accompany me. On asking for the master, we -were shown into the 
librar}^; five minutes later the young man himself walked into the 
room. 

The sight of him depiived me utterly of the power of speech; my 
uncle looked at me reproachfully, and was silent too. 

George Redruth, v ho had just been dining, wore evening dress, 
and had never looked handsomer, or more thoroughly at his ease, 
in his life. 

“ Well!” he said, glancing at us pleasantly— he was evidently in 


54 


THE MASTER OF THE MIiq^E, 


an after-dinner mood-— “ is there anything I can do for either of 
jou?” 

“ Master Jarge,’" said my uncle, earnestly, “ we’m in trouble, 
sir; in soie trouble/' 

“ Indeed! Tm sorry to hear it." 

“ I knawed you’d be sarry, sir," continued my uncle, “ though 
’tain’t no affair o' yourn, God knaws; but my daughter, sir, my 
little Annie, she be run’d away!" 

" What!" Re exclaimed. " Run away from home, do you mean? 
But why come to me? What can I do?" 

" Naught, you can’t do naught at all," said my uncle, " that’s 
just it." 

It was an awkward situation for us all, and we all felt it. My 
uncle nervously turned his hat round and round; while the young 
master grew more and more uncomfoi table as every minute went 
by. 1 felt that some explanation was demanded, and 1 gave it. 

" The fact is, sii," 1 said, " there is some villain at the bottom 
of it, and we want to find out who that villain is." 

" And so you come to me! Really, 1 don’t see the force of all 
this, and 1 have more important matters to detain me!" 

He opened the door, and we, ^seeing that further conversation 
would be useless, left the room and the house. 

During the walk home, my uncle never spoke. When we reached 
the cottage, he sunk down into a chair, and hid his face in his hands. 

Nothing more could be done that night, so we all went to bed; 
but not to sleep. During the night 1 frequently heard my uncle 
walking with measured step up and down his room, and in the giay 
of the morning he came out to the kitchen to kindle a flie. 

1 looked at him, and scarcely knew him; his face was white and 
lined like that of an old man. He was quite calnr. but there was 
a sad look in his eyes which spoke of deep- set pain. 

1 spoke to him of Annie, and told of a plan I had made to follow 
her and bring her back; but he sadly shook his head. 

" Naw, lad," said he, ‘‘ ’lis best left alawn; she went o’ her awn 
free will, and maybe some day she’ll come back; and till she does, 
we’ll wait, we’ll wait!” 

1 felt he was right; it was better to wait. Even if we had been 
rich folk, which we were not, it would have been difiicult to find 
her; as it was, the matter was hopeless. So we went on as usual 
with the old life. And yet it was not the old life, for the house was 
changed indeed— and there was ever one vacant chair. 


THE MASTEli OE THE MIKE. 


65 




. Several days aftei that ead night, a letter came from Annie; it 
bore the London postmark, and ran as follows: 

“ My dear Parents,— Do not grieve about me, for 1 am quite 
well and in want of nothing. Do not attempt to find me, it would 
be useless; but 1 shall soon come back, with God’s blessing, and 
then you will learn why 1 left without a word. 1 am soiry. so 
sorry, for any trouble 1 have given you, and hope you will forgive 
me, for tne sake of the happy days that are gone away. Your lov- 
i ng daughter, Annie. ’ ’ 

My aunt read the letter aloud; then my uncle took it from her, 
looked at it for a long time, and finally, without a word, placed it 
on the fire — watching it till it. was consumed. After that, for a 
long time to come, he never spoke of Annie again; but he drooiied 
daily, like a man under the weight of some mortal pain. 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE GREAT STORM. 

It was now late in the year, and the winter storms were begin- 
ning. There were intervals of calm cool weather, when the wind, 
came from the east or south-east, and still frosty days, when a 
breath as cold as steel crept from the red sunrise of the north; out 
ever and again the trumpet of the tempest sounded westward and 
southward, and the ocean rose up before it in mountains of furi- 
ous storm. 

To stand on the sea-shore, or on the weather-worn clifl^s, at such 
moments, was an experience not to be forgotten. With a sound 
of crashing thunder, with sheet-like flashes of flying foam, the 
mighty billows came rolling in; while tar away, in the eye of the 
wind, the clouds gathered and baleful rays came and went, as if 
from the under world. Again and again, during these storms, the 
men forsook their work in the mine and clustered on ihe wind- 
swept crags; for the sound beneath was too terrible, and at each 
Clash of the waters overhead the solid roots of rock seemed about 
to topple In. 

A new life-boat had come round from Falmouth during the sum- 
mer; it was manned chiefly by workers in the mine, and 1 w^as 
their captain. We had tried the boat again and again in light 
weather, and were proud of her as life-boat smen could be; so that, 
when need came, we were ready to do all that human hands could 


56 


THE HASTEH OF THE MINE, 


do for the succor ol shipwrecked souls. Fortunately, lew vessels 
came that way, to need our aid in time of peril, for the great ships 
gave that lonely shore a wide berth, knowing its man^'’ perils. 
Soinetinies, however, a coasting-vessel, heavily laden, came ashore 
on the outlying reefs, but, thanks to our sturdy boat, without much 
loss of life. 

On the afternoon of the 22d day of Kovember, 18*—, there oc- 
curred such a phenomenon as 1 have'seen only once in my life, and 
scarcely expect to see again. The ocean was dead calm and black 
as ink; the sooty clouds, with sheets of windless vapor trailing 
light down to the earth and water, kept stationary in a sort of sin- 
ister twilight; and the air was full of an extraoidinary stillness, in 
which the concussion of the slightest sound — a cock crowing, a 
goat bleating, a human voice crying — was heard for miles away. 

1 had juBt been down the mine, where 1 found the men had ceased 
working, and had gathered in knots, whispering together. For all 
•through the daik galleries and passages there came, from time to 
lime, a curious tremor, like the shock of earthquake — sullen, sin- 
ister, terrible, making the iieart. tor some unknown reason, stand 
still with fear. Nor was this sound to be accounted for by the 
dashing of waves above that subaqueous darkness, since there was 
not a breath of wind, and the sea lay in sullen, moveless folds, 
scarcely vibrating. 

“ What is it, my lads?” 1 asked, accosting the first group of men, 
who were clustering on the central platform. 

As 1 spoke, the tremor came again, so that the walls seemed 
tumbling over, the hard ground recking under me, with a vibration 
which seemed to send a nameless terror into my very blood. 

My uncle, v^ho was there with the others, shook his head omin- 
ously. 

‘‘We dawn’t rightly knaw,” he said; ” but we ha’ hard ’un again 
and again, sounding like that. Seems threatening like, and 1 ha’ 
bidden the gang knock oJt wark for to-day.” 

I knew that it was useless to remonstrate, for the men were evi- 
dently full of superstitious dread, which, if the truth must be told, 
1 could not help sharing. They” threw down their pickaxes and 
shovels, and followed me up the shaft. 

We found Johnson there, who seemed astonished at our appear- 
ance, and when 1 told him what had taken place, looked savage. 

” ‘You’re spoiling the men, Trelawney,” he said. '* Guess such 
nervous fancies are only fit for an old woman. Why, the sea's like 
a mill-pond, and there ain’t a breath of wind.’^ 


THE MASTER OF THE 3IIKB. 


57 


“ If you think it’s only fancy,” 1 replied, ” come dovvn with me 
and try. I’ll give you a five-pound note if you stop down there 
halt an hour.” 

He- shrunk back and shook his head angrily, while the men, clus- 
tering lound us, greeted my speech with a lau^li. 

“ 1 shall report this,” he cried, viciously. ” A pack of cowards!” 

And he walked ofi, amid an angry murmur from the men, who 
detest eil him cordially. 

As the afternoon passed, and the dull leaden twilight increased, " 
we saw, looking seaward, the phenomenon to which 1 have alluded: 
two suns, one round and purple, the other pink and ghostly, float- 
ing in the vapors to the west. Both were quite rayless, and they 
hung as it were some fifty yards from each other. Both seemed so 
near to us that one would have thought it possible to reach them 
with a bullet from a gun. 

I can not express in words the strangely depressing and vaguely 
alarming effect of this phenomenon on myself and all who wit- 
nessed it. Nor was the ejflect lessened when the dimmer of the 
two suns suddenly disappeared, and the other changed in a mo- 
ment from purple to jet-black. A jet-black ball in the midst of a 
waste of leaden gray. 

” Lawd save us!” cried Maitiu Treruddock, an old fisherman, 
and one of our life-boat’s crew. ” Lawd save us! It looks like 
judgment, mates— like the Last Day!” 

This, indeed, was the thought which was passing through all our 
minds. AVe stood looking in suspense till the black sun disap- 
peared, and total darkness came; and then, with no little forebod- 
ing, we scattered to our homes. 

But in the night, as we lay sleeping in our beds, we learned that 
what we had witnessed betokened, not any supernatural disturb- 
ance, but ihe fathering of such a tempest as has seldom been seen, 
before or since, on those shores. It came with fearful lightning and 
close-following thunder, followed by drops of black and hideous 
hail ; and then, with a crash and a scream and a cry, the wind rushed 
from the sea. 1 lay in my bed in the cottage, thinking every mo- 
ment that the house would come down, shaking as it did to its foun- 
dations, or the roof be blown away; and every minute the blasts 
grew more terrific, not coming in broken gusts as during ordi- 
nary storms, but in concussions of solid air, ’which struck the walls 
with blows as of a battering-ram, and made every stone in the struct- 
ure clatter like a loose tooth. 


THE MASTER OF THE MINE. 


5S 


Presently, 1 saw my uncle, paitially dressed and Iioldinpj a light, 
enter my chamber. 

“ Hugh, my lad, be you asleep?” 

“As if any one could sleep on such a night! 1 thought yester- 
day’s portent meant something. The storm has come!” 

‘‘Mother be frighted badly,” he returned. ‘‘She be praying, 
lad, dawn i’ the kitchen. Lawd save us; hark to that!” he added, 
as a flash of fiery lightning filled the room, and wind and thunder 
mingled together in awful reveibeiation. 

There was no resting in bed, so 1 slipped on my clothes and went 
down with iny uncle to the kitchen, where 1 found my aunt full of 
superstitious terror. She had got out the old Bible, and, having 
opened at random, was reading in a low voice from one of the 
Psalms. 1 did my best to allay her tears, but succeeded very badly. 

For the greater part of the night we remained sitting up. The 
thunder and lightning lasted well on till morning, and when they 
ceased, it became possible for the first time to realize the frightful 
violence of the gale. It was, as 1 afterward learned, a well-defined 
cyclone. 

With the first peep of daylight, 1 seized my hat and moved to the 
door. 

” Whar be’st gawing, lad?” cried my aunt. 

‘‘ Down to the shore. It’s a high spring-tide, and 1 want to see 
if the life-boat’s snug.” 

” Na, na,” she cried, ** stawp yar!” 

But 1 only smiled at her fears, and hastened aw^ay. Ko sooner 
had I left the cottage than the wind caught me, and almost dashed 
me from my feet; but 1 stooped my head, and plunged right on in 
the teeth of the gale. The day was now breaking with lurid sullen 
rays, behind my back. Short as the distance was to the sea shore, 1 
thought 1 should never reach it, so terrible was the fury of the 
blast! More than once 1 had actually to lie down on the ground 
and let it trample over me! And with the blast came bail and heavy 
rain, blinding me, smiting my cheek like whipcord, and drawing 
blood, so that 1 could scarcely see a yard before my face. 

At last 1 gained the cliff, and here 1 had much ado to prevent my- 
self from being lifted up bodily and blown away. But 1 threw my- 
self on my face, and looked seaward. Nothing w^as visible, only 
driving mists and vapors; but right' below there was a blinding 
whileness of the line of breakers, and thence there rose up to me, 
together with the wild wisps of solid wind-swept water, the deafen- 
ing thunder-roar of the tumultuously surging sea. 


THE MASTEli OF THE MINE. 


59 


Gaining courage presently, as the light in the east grew clearer, 
1 ciawled down the path leading to the shore. As 1 went, 1 was 
sometimes flattened like a rag against the rocks, by the sheer force 
of the wind; bul.l persevered, and at last, with God's help, reached 
the bottom. 

It was high tide; the roaring billows W’ere thundering up close to 
the clifi, and the shallow creek surrounding the boat-house was as 
white as milk with the churning of the waters. 1 then perceived, 
to my consternation, that the gale had struck the boat-house with 
such force as to sweep^the wooden roof away and dash it into frag- 
ments against the clifls. 1 crept on to the door, which was on the 
lee and sheltered side, drew forth from my pocket the key of the 
padlock, opened it, and went in. The great boat lay there un- 
harmed, but was half full of water, fresh from the dark rain clouds, 
salt from the angr}*^ sea. One of the oars had been lifted out and 
snapped like a rotten twig, but that was all. 

Suddenly, as I stood here sheltering from the gale,l heard a sound 
from seaward, like the sound of a gun. 1 started, listening. In a 
minute the sound was repeated, les; it was a gun at sea, and the 
sound could have only one signiflcalion — a vessel in distress ! 

Quitting the boat-house, 1 stood on the shore, and strained my 
eyes against the drifting vapors and blinding wind; butl could dis- 
tinguish nothing— indeed, so great was the rainy darkness, that my 
vision could not penetiale beyond tw^enty or thirty yanls from the 
storm-swept shore. But if 1 needed any fresh assurance that a ship 
of some sort was struggling with the elements not far away, it came 
to me in another faint report of a gun, and Anally, in the red light 
of a rocket, which shot up through the black vaporc like a shooting 
star, and disappeared! 


CHAPTER Xll. 

THE SURVIVORS OF THE WRECK. 

Quitting the storm-swept shore, 1 climbed half way up the 
crags, and endeavored, with straining eyes, to penetrate the dark- 
ness seaward, but although it was now broad da}'-, the clouds of 
wind-blown vapor still covered the troubled sea. 

Greatly agitated, 1 made my way up the cliff, and reacherl the 
summit, where 1 found that an excited group, composed of fisher- 
men and miners, had alieady gatheied. Among them was my 
uncle, who addressed me eagerly the moment 1 appeared, 


60 


THE MASTER OE THE MINE. 

“ Did 3^ou say the lights, lad? Sure as death, there be a ship on 
the rocks out thar 1” 

“ On the South StacK,” said an old fisherman, naming an ugly 
reef which lay right across the mouth of the bay, three quarters of 
a mile from shore. 

“ Are you sure she’s there?” 1 asked, eagerly. 

” Sure enough,” was the reply. ” When the last light wentoop, 
1 saw ’m — leastways, summat blacK amang the mist and foam.” 

There was nothing for it but to wait and watch, for to go to the 
rescue in the teeth of such a storm was out oS the question, even if 
wre had been able to launch the lile-boat thiough the billows madly 
breaking on the shore. The wind still blew with extraordinary fuiy, 
though signs were not wanting that its strength was partially 
broken; and still, with thunderous roar, the waves cau'.e rolling in, 
SI nding\ip a cloud of white foam that reached to the very summit 
of the cliff where we were ciouching; and still, trailing as it were 
on the waves and belching hither and thither, like thick smoke 
from a furnace, the mist came driving shoreward, blotting the sea 
from sight. 

From time to lime the gun sounded again ; then it ceased alto- 
gcther; and no more rockets rose, to Indicate the whereabouts of 
the hidden vessel. W as all over? Had the cruel seas devoured her, 
with the helpless souls on board? {Sick with suspense, w^e waited 
and watched; almost certain that the last appeal had been made, 
and that all was over. 

Suddenly, the storm-smoke blew upward here and there, leaving 
visible wild patches of tossing water. Simultaneously, the wind 
lessened, coming not in solid phalanx, but in gusts, fitful though 
terrible — very cannon blasts of air. 

A vt^ifd cry rose, and all hands were suddenly pointed seaward. 

Then, straining my eyes through the blinding rain, 1 saw some- 
thing like a white wall of vapor rising right out to sea in the direc- 
tion of the South Slack, and right in its center the black outline of 
a large vessel, wedged firmly on the jagged rocks. For a moment 
she was visible, then the vapors hlotted her cnce more from sight. 
A minute afterward, she was again visible, this time more distin^jt- 
]y, so that 1 could clearly discern a black funnel and two masts, a 
mainmast intact, a foremast broken off just above the decks. She 
was a large screw-steamer, with her back broken right across, and 
only saved from sinking by the very locks which had destroyed her. 

How she had got into that fatal position, it was difficult to tell. 
Possibly her propel ler had snapped, as is not uncommon with such 


THE MASTER OF THE MIME. 


61 


vessels, or the water haa swamped her engines and put them out; 
in either of which cases, seeing how little sail she would be able to 
carry at the best, it had been a vain task to attempt to beat.oft a lee 
shore in the face of such a gale. 

She was so far away, and the mists were still so troublesome, 
that It was dfficult to tell if there were any souls still left on board. 
3lore than once 1 fancied that 1 discerned shapes like human torms 
clinging to or lashed to the rigging of the mainmast, but it was im- 
possible to distinguish them with any certainty. 

However, my inind was now made up. The life-boat must be 
launched and manned without delay. 1 turned to the men and said 
a much, but they shrunk back in unconcealed terror at the mere 
proposition. And, indeed, it seemed a hopeless affair! Although 
the wind had certaiuly fallen a little, its falling seemed to augment, 
rather than to lessen, the fury of the sea. The waters between us 
and the vessel were ttnible even to look upon; and it seemed im- 
possible that even a life-boat could live among them. Even if she 
lived, how could the strength of men propel her right i n the te eth 
of the tempest? 

While the men stood t^esitating, the mists rose all round the ship, 
and we saw, to our amazement, that a stir was taking place upon 
her decks. Yes; there could be no doubt of the fact; a boat was 
preparing to leave her sides, and. freighted with human beings, 
push away for the shore. 

Never shall 1 forget that sight! Just in the lee of the crippled 
vessel, under the cloud of white smoke which rose for a moment 
high above her remaining mast, there was a heaving patch where 
the boat could float in safety; but beyond it, and nearer to us the 
waves rose again in awful crested billows whirling and swirling to- 
ward the shore. Seen from our point of vantage, the boat seemed 
a mere cockle-shell; but we saw the tiny specks crowding into it, 
while the broken w^ater streamed like milk over the vessel’s decks 
and dowm her shoreward sides. 

“ God help them!” 1 cried aloud, and more than one voice echoed 
my prayer. 

The boat pushed off. The under-swell caught her and rushed 
her along at lightning speed, and in a few moments she reached the 
broken water. There the wind seemed to smite her sidelong, and 
she was buried -instantaneously in the trough of the sea. But she 
reappeared, halt smothered in surf and flying foam. Then we saw 
rapialy approaching her, a mountainous and awful wave! 

The little boat, as if it were a living thing, seemed to sec it too, 


62 


THE MASTER OF THE MIHE, 


and to struggle to escape! Sick with horror, 1 covered my eyes; 1 
could not look. Then 1 heard a deep groan from the men around 
n?e, and locked again. 

The boat had gone, never to reappear. The mighty wave had 
broken and was roaring shoreward, and amid its foam 1 saw, or 
seemed to see, shapes that struggled, sunk, and died. 

“ Man the life-boat!” 1 cried. “ Quick, lads! Follow me!” 

My uncle gripped me by the arm. 

‘‘ Too late, lad! There’s ne’er a sawl aboard!” 

“Look yonder!” 1 answered, pointing seaward. “There are 
living men on the deck still, and in the rigging. Come!” 

The lads, who were English born, and had their hearts in the 
right places, responded with a cheer, and down the path we rushed 
till we reached the shore. Entering the boat-house, we soon had the 
boat bailed and ready tor launching, when 1 firsl realized, to my 
dismay, that we were short-handed, several ot my best men being 
away. But two strong lads from the mine volunteered, and my 
•uncle made a third; and so we formed a crew. To every man 1 
gave a cork life-belt, and tied on one myself. Then, springing to 
my place in the stern, I urged on my men, as with shouts and yells, 
scarcely heard amid the roar of water, they ran the boat into the 
creek. 

Each man knew his place. They urged the boat, bow forward, 
into the surge, and waded with it, those the furthest from shore 
wading breast-deep in the waves. Thrice we were beaten back, and 
1 thought the boat would have been crushed to pieces on the beach, 
but at last she floated— the men leaped in and took their places— 
the oars smote the boiling surge, and out we crept to sea. 

Once fairly afloat, we realized for the first time the strength and 
fury of the storm. Clouds of flying foam covered us, the strong 
seas caught the oars and almost tore them from the grasp, and foi 
a time we scarcely seemed to gain a foot of way. But the lads puv 
out their strength, and sheer muscle and bold heroic will conquer 
ing at last, the life boat left the shore. 

And now 1 alone, standing in the stern-sheets, with the steering 
oar in my hand, could see what mountainous seas we had to pasw 
before we could reach the doomed vessel, which was now scarcely 
discernible through the sheet of iow-flying spray. As some great 
w^ave came near, curling high above us, 1 cheered on the men, ana 
we met it v^ith a shock like thunder and a rattle of every plank of 
which the boat was made. More than once the seas made a clean 
broach over us, but the air-tight compartments and cushions of 


THE MASTER OF THE MIHE. 


C3 

cork kept us from actually foundering. On we w^ent, with the light 
of the kindling east turning from red to reddish-gold behind us. and 
the mists, struck by the new radiance, thinning to seaward; and so, 
after a fierce tussle with wind and water, we came in full sight of 
tlie doomed vessel. 

Stuck fast on the cruel reef, her back broken, she was struggling 
like a crippled bird— lying over, with her decks and funnel inclined 
loward the shore, and quivering through and through with every 
blow of the strong metallic waves. A pillar of smoky foam, ever- 
vanishing, ever renewed, hung over her in the air, and from time 
to time the waters foamed over her weather side, and streamed over 
the splitting decks. 

At first 1 could discern no sign of life, but as we drew nearer and 
nearer, 1 saw one or two figures clinging in the rigging, from which 
many of their comrades had doubtless been washed away. They 
saw us coming, for one of them waved something white. 

“ Pull for your lives!” 1 cried. “ There are men aboard!” * 

The lads answered me with a cheer, and the boat shot forward to 
the steady sweep of their united oars till we were within a hundred 
yards of the steamer. 

Then 1 saw a sight which filled all my soul with fear, and pity. 
Lashed to, or clinging to, the mainmast, was the solitary figure of 
a woman. 1 knew her sex by the wild hair falling over her shoul- 
ders, ana the curious feminine grace of her form, visible through a 
dark cloak that had been thrown hastily upon her shoulders; but 
her head was drooping and her face hidden, and she did not seem 
conscious of what was taking place. 

1 told the men that a woman was there, and though they needed 
no new incentive to give them strength, their faces grew more ani- 
mated, and 1 knew they would have faced fire as well as 5valer in 
such a cause. In a few minutes more w^e were close at hand, rising 
and falling on the white surge in the vessel’s Tee. 

Then the woman raised her head, and looked in our direction. The 
men saw her, and gave another cheer; bull — 1 could have swooned 
away in consternation. My head went round. 1 looked again and 
again. 

Either 1 was mad, of dreaming, or the face 1 gazed upon was that 
of the love of my boyhood— Madeline Graham I 


64 


THE MASTER OF THE MIKE, 


chapter xin. 

MADELINE GRAnAM. 

Yes: 1 knew her in a moment. 

The lurid light of tlie tempestuous morning shone full upon her 
face, and on the clinging dress and cloak, which more expressed 
than hid her lovely form. Her eyes were wildly fixed, her face 
pale as death; but in her features there was a splendid self-posses- 
sion far removed from common fear. 

Though so many years bad passed since we had last met, she was 
still the same; only taller and more womanly, and even more 
strangely beautiful than when she had first shed love and rapture 
on my boyish heart. 

She was fastened to the mast by a rope. Her feet were bare, and 
1 saw, to my horror, that all she wore save the great fur cloak was 
a night-dress of white cotton, reaching to her feet. Her hair fell 
ov(fr her shoulders in loose and dripping folds, descending almost 
to her waist. Peering more closely, 1 perceived that her lips were 
blue, and her form shivering with cold; indeed, it was a miracle 
that she had not perished in the chill of that cruel night. 

From that moment 1 saw nothing but that one figure; all others 
were blurred and practically unseen. In my wild amazement and 
eagerness to leach her, 1 could have sprung into the tossing waves. 

The vessel lay sidelong, her decks turned toward the shore; and 
the fierce billows, striking her seaw’ard sides, broke with a thunder- 
ous roar and a cloud of spray, and then came surging down the slip- 
pery decks in a thin sheet of foam, boiling round the naked feet of 
the solitary maiden. 

We hung off for a minute, to let one great sea go by; then we 
swept alongside. What followed was more like a dream than wak- 
ing reality. But with an eager cry 1 leaped upon tlie deck, and 
staggereil up toward Madeline Graham. 

Twice 1 slipped to my knees, and was driven back and bruised 
against the bulwarks; but the third time 1 succeeded, and reaching 
her side, clung to tlie mast, and gazed into her face. 

“ Madeline!’' 1 cried. 

Her eyes met mine, but she gave no sign of recognition. It was 
clear that wdiat 1 remembered so vividly she had utterly forgotten. 

Drawing my clasp-knife, I cut her free, and put my arms around 


THE MASTER OE THE MIKE. 


G5 


her to bear her back to the boat. The decks rocked and split be- 
neath us; she clung to me, as if in terror. Then 1 watched my 
chance, aud, raising her bodily in my arms, carried her to the ves- 
sel's side, and liauded her to the men. 

1 was about to follow her, when I was attracted by a wild scream, 
and, turning, 1 perceived the figure of another woman crawling on 
the deck, close to the companion. She was dark-complexioned, 
like a mulatto, and almost naked. Without a moment's hesitation, 
1 ran to her, and half lifted, half dragged her, to the vessel’s side. 

1 now perceived that we had saved, in addition to the two women, 
two w'hite seamen and a black man, who afterward turned out to 
be the ship’s cook. 1 clung to the bulwarks, and looked round, 
searching for any other signs of liie. 

“ Come, lad, come!" cried my uncle. " Quick! the ship's break- 
ing up.” 

1 looked at the strange sailors, who sat shivering in the bottom of 
the life-boat. 

" Are there no more souls aboard?" 1 cried. 

"Not one," they answered. All the rest had perished in the 
long-boat, in the fatal attempt to reach the shore. 

There was not a moment to be lost. The vessel was evidently 
doomed, and every shock of the sea threatened to complete the 
work of destruction. The black funnel, almost wrenched out of 
the bursting decks, was leaning over terribly, and threatening every 
moment, to crash down bodily and destroy the life-boat. 

1 leaped in, and scrambled to my place in the stern. On the seat 
close by me was Madeline, her eyes half closed, her neck lesting on 
the gunwale; and at her feet was the colored woman, moaning "and 
crying. 

It was but the work of a moment to strip off my pilot-coat and 
wrap it round Madeline's half naked limbs; but while 1 did so the 
men cried impatiently', and pushed off. 

" Give way, lads!" I cried. " Now! Pull for your lives!" 

Away we went through the surging sea. Not a minute too soon 
did we leave the vessel; for ere we were thirty yards away the decks 
were rent asunder, and the huge funnel toppled over and fell like a 
battering-ram upon the bulwarks, which broke like tinder beneath 
the blow. 

With wind and sea to urge us on, we flew shoreward, and the 
strength of the oarsmen was needed rather to break than to increase 
our lightning speed. Again and again the great seas rose behind 


66 


THE MASTER OF THE MIITE. 


and threatened to ingulf us; while gripping the steering oar 1 
watched them, and guided the brave boat. 

At last we approached the shore, and saw a great crowd waiting 
upon the shingle and swarming upon the cliS. Tossing like a cork 
upon the waters, we waited our chance, and then, after one huge 
wave had spent itself, and there was a momentay surcease of the 
water’s power, 1 headed the boat’s bow for the creek, and we rowed 
in. 

As the keel struck the sands, a dozen men rushed in waist-deep 
to seize the boat; oui men joined them, and then, with a long puli, 
a strong pull, and a great ringing cheer, the boat w^as hauled high 
and dry, and we were safe. 

My first thought was of Madeline. 1 lifted her out in my strong 
arms, and carried her into the shelter of the boat-house. Her face 
and hands were cold as ice, and she was still swooning. 1 called 
out for brandy; and thank God! a man handed me a full flask. 
Supporting her head upon my shoulder, 1 moistened her lips with 
the raw spirit, and once more in my wild anxiety, 1 breathed her 
name. 

Once more she opened her eyes and looked upon me; still there 
was no sign whatever, of recognition. 

She looked wildly round her, saw the rough but kindly faces on 
every side, and murmured : 

“ Where am 1? Who calls me?” 

“You are quite safe,” 1 cried, “ and among friends.” 

Again she looked up unto my face, as if stupefied. I held the 
flask to her lips, and she seemed to swallow a little; then a shudder 
ran through her frame, and she released herself from my hold. 

1 placed her on one of the wooden seats, and bent over her, ten- 
derly watching her. Gradually 1 saw the color come back to her 
cheeks, but very faintly. 

“ Anita!” she murmured, and looked round as if seeking some- 
one. 

The rough fellows, clustering in the boat-house, murmured sym- 
pathizingly; whispered encomiums on her beauty passed from 
mouth to mouth. And indeed she looked strangely lovely, even in 
her desolation— her eyes brightening, her color coming and going, 
her hair streaming over hei shoulders, her neck and arms and feet 
as white as driven snow! 

As her strength and consciousness returned, a new awe fell upon 
me, and I stood timidly watching her. 

She gazed at me again^ 


THE MASTER OP THE MIHE. 


67 


“Now 1 understand/' she said. “Tell me of the others; are 
they savefl?" 

1 told her the truth, and again she shuddered, half closing her 
eyes, as if to shut out the picture of the horrors of the wreck. At 
that moment some of the life-boai's men appeared, leading with 
them tne colored woman, who, the instant she saw Madeline, sprung 
toward her and knelt by her side, hysterically sobbing, and kissing 
hei hands. 

Madeline bent over her and addressed her in some foreign tongue 
—'Portuguese, 1 afterward discovered. She answered volubly in 
the same speech. 1 suspected the truth, that this black girl was an 
attendant or waiting-maid of some sort, and that Madeline was her 
mistress. 

Turning to one of the rescued sailors, who had now approached 
and was phlegmatically chewing a quid as if he had just been com- 
fortably landed from a passing boat, 1 questioned him concerning 
the lost vessel. She was a large trading-steamer, he said, bound 
fronrDemerara to the port of London; her name, the “ Valparaiso;’’ 
her captain one John Stetson, a good sailor, who had been killed 
by the falling of the foremast, and swept overboard. Her passage 
arioss the Aflantic had been smooth and pleasant; but the night be- 
fore she had experienced all the strength of the great gale, and 
while contending with it had broken her propeller. After that, 
she had tried to lie-to under sail, and had she- found sea- room would 
doubtless have been able to weather the storm; but, as ill luck 
would have it, the rocks of Cornwall were right under her lee, and 
the wind and sea swept her down upon them. 

1 questioned him concerning that episode of the boat. He ex- 
plained that two of the boats had been smashed into fragments 
when the ship first struck. The long-boat remained, and at ^ay- 
break, after the captain perished, the. first ofi5cer, fancying that the 
ship was doomed,_jietermined to make for shore. All the crew 
followed him but my informant and two others, who preferred 
sticking by the steamer to facing certain death. The men, in fact, 
were mad with fright and drink combined, and for this reason, 
perhaps, altogether forgot to wait for Madeline, who had gone be- 
low. 

So the last boat left the ship. It had not gone far when Madeline 
reappeared. She would have been swept away but for the assist- 
ance of the Bailors, who strapped her to the mast as the only chance 
of safely; and as she stood there terror-stricken, she saw the boat 


68 


THE MASTEU OF THE MIHE. 


ingulfed with all its crew-* the same sad sight which we had seen 
fioni land. 

It turned out, on further questioning, that Miss Graham was the 
only passenger, and occupied, with her colored maid, the captain’s 
own cabin. Her father, a rich Demerara planter, had died some 
months before she took passage, leading her a great inheritance. 1 
had no time to answer for myself the many questions which crowded 
upon my mind— Why Madeline had come to England? Whether 
she had relations surviving in the old country? Whether any liv- 
ing person, lover or friend, bad the right to protect her? But 1 
looked at her again, and thought how different she was from all the 
other women 1 had known, in her queenly grace and warmth of 
beauty. Beside her, even my cousin Annie would have looked 
t oaiseand common. 

But there was no time to be lost, it she was to escape the conse- 
quences of that night’s exposure. IShe was still dripping wet, anil 
the morning air was bitterly cold. 

“ You must not stay here,” i said, approaching her, “or -you 
will catch your death. Do you think you can ascend the clifts? 
My aunt’s cottage is close by, and 1 should like to take you there 
fdoDce.” 

She rose at once, shivering, and took my arm. Halt leading, 
half-supporting her, 1 guided her out of the boat-house and up the 
steep ascent leading to the summit of the crag, my uncle helping 
her upon the other side. Some of the others followed, leading the 
colored girl. 

It was a steep climb; and before we had gone far we found that 
her strength w^as failing her, so that we were compelled to raise her 
bodily in our arms; but she was light and fragile enough, and, for 
my own part, 1 could have carried her like a child. 

Once on the summit, we rested again, while some of the men went 
in chase of a moor pony, one of the several grazing on the moor 
hard by. When it was secured, and bridled and bitted with a stout 
rope, 1 lifted her upon it, and placed the black girl by her side; and 
thus, still holding her and walking by her side, while the men fol- 
lowed behind like a procession, 1 conducted her to our cottage, 
and handed her over to the care of my kind aunt. 

Thus God, in a mysterious fashion, had restored to me the being 
who had been to me for so many years a sweet memory and a de- 
lightful vision. 1 felt strangely happy, yet troubled; unable yet to 
realize what had taken place. When my aunt had led Madeline to 
a chamber upstairs, where she tended her with motherly sympathy 


THE MASTER OF THE MIKE. 


69 


and tenderness, 1 sat in the kitchen, waiting and wondering, like 
one in a dream. 


CHAPTEK XIV. 

A SUNBEAM IN THE COTTAGE. 

It seemed as if the days of my boyhood had come back to me. 
Kever since then had 1 experienced such feelings as now filled my 
heart, for with her fading they had faded, and during the years of 
our separation 1 had passed my time with tolerable tranquillity; but 
now that she had been so miraculously restored to me, the old fire 
was rekindled in my soul, and 1 became ano^er man. 

Her very presence in the house that night drove away all thoughts 
of sleep. 1 paced my room with restless footsteps, and when the 
dawn broke 1 hurried oft to the shore. 

What a change bad come! The wind had died, the sea was like 
glass, and the only record left of the storm was the.wreckage which 
was being cast upon the sands. Early as 1 was, there were others 
before me, gazing eagerly seaward, and searching along the cliffs 
for a prize. 

1 took a walk round by the mine, and, having made a hasty in- 
spection, 1 hurried back to the cottage, eagerly hoping, yet half 
dreading, to see Madeline. But 1 was disappointed. My uncle had 
gone to his work. My aunt was busy, but alone. I looked round 
the kitchen, and my heart gave a great throb. After all, the events 
of the past night were real. There, hanging beside the fire, was 
the cloak— a rich mantle of silk and fur— which had been clinging 
round Madeline’s form when 1 took her from the wreck. 

1 inquired eagerly tor Madeline. “ Have you seen her, auntV” 
1 asked. “Is she well? How does she look? “ 

1 suppose there was something peculiar in my manner, for my 
aunt gazed at me curiously, and said, 

“ Who be she, Hugh? Dost knaw who she be?” 

“ Aes,” 1 replied; “ she is Miss Madeline Graham. She was at 
school with me long ago. Just before my father died she left, and 
I have never seen her since.” 

At that moment the door opened, and the figure of the black 
woman appeared. In the light of day she looked foreign indeed — 
a slight, delicate girl, shivering with the cold of our raw climate. 1 
asked her how her mistiess did. She made no answer, but stared 
vacantly at me; and I then discovered that she knew no language 


TO 


THE MASTER OF THE MIME. 


but the one in which she had spoken to Madeline. 1 looked at my 
aunt, and she understood — she went herself into the bedroom to 
see how her guest was getting on. 

»3he was away only a few minutes, yet it seemed to me an hour. 
When she came back, she smiled at my anxious look. 

“It be all right, lad, it be all right,” she said. “ The lady be 
naw the warse o’ her watting; but she be tired, and will stawp in 
bed to-day. She be a prat ty creature, Hugh, and rich, X darsay; 
for her fingers be covered wi’ dawmond rings.” 

All that day, overcome by the fatigue through which she had 
passed, Madeline remained in her chamber; while I, utterly unable 
to work, hung like a restless spirit about the house. The next 
morning she awoke ref^gshed; and when we three sat at breakfast, 
she astonished us all by appearing amongst us, fully dressed, and 
looking bright and well. 

Her advent caused a general exclamation; my aunt ran forward 
to her assistance; my uncle placed our most comfortable chair be- 
side the fire; while 1, dumb and powerless, stood in the background 
doing nothing. Madelinel Could this be Madeline?-— the little girl 
1 had dreamed of all these years, whose hands had been covered 
with my passionate kisses and marked with my tears, and who 
had even wept a little herself at parting with me; could this be the 
same? — this glorious creature, with dreamy black eyes, warm brown 
skin, and glorious black hair! Her form was tall and straight as a 
willow; she moved like a queen. 

As all her own clothes had been lost in the wreck, she wore a 
dress of my aunt ; over it she had thrown tho cloak which sho had 
worn on the wreck, and which was now thoroughly dried. She 
came forward languidly, leaning on the shoulder of her black at- 
tendant, and sunk down into the chan which my uncle had placed 
for her, while the native began crying and kissing her hands. They 
spoke together in the foreign tongue; then Madeline raised her eyes 
and looked quietly around. All this while 1 had been standing in 
the background, longing, yet dreading to speak to her; for 1 saw 
clearly enough that to her all the past was forgotten ; but now, as 
her eyes swept the room and finally rested with a look of recog- 
nition on my face, 1 felt the hot blood mount to my temples. 

“ Am 1 mistaken?” she asked, softly; “ did you take me from 
the WTeck?” 

I bowed my head. In a moment all her languor disappeared, the 
old fire darted from her eyes, the old flush suffused her cheeks — 
she was the Madeline of my childhood once more. She looked at 


71 


THE MASTER OE THE MINE. 

her hands, with one quick movement pulled off the most valuable 
of her rings, and held it toward me. 

Will you not take it?” she said, with a bright smile. “ You 
saved my life.” 

Her whole manner was that of a lady speaking to an inferior. 
Under my excitement 1 hardly noticed it. Scarcely knowing what 
1 did, 1 sprung forward and took the ring; then, eagerly kissing 
her hand, 1 placed it again upon her finger. 

“Madeline,” 1 said, “don’t you know me? Madeline— Miss 

Graham!” 

She looked at me more critically, and shook her head. 

“Have you forgotten Munster’s,” 1 said, “and Hugh Trelaw- 
ney?” 

If 1 expected a wild outburst of pleasure at the mention of my 
own name, 1 was quickly disappointed. She only smiled; and, 
with her eyes fixed upon vacancy as if she was reviewing the past, 
said, 

“ Munster’s? Hugh Trelawney? Oh, yes; of course 1 remem- 
ber now! Hugh Trelawney was the nicest of those Munster boys, 
and we were friends; but,” she added, fixing her eyes anxiously 
upon me, “ surely you are not that boy?” 

“ Yes,” 1 replied, “ 1 am Hugh Trelawney!” 

Her eyes opened wider, she glanced from me to my uncle and 
aunt, then round the kitchen, then she was silent. 

1 felt that some explanation was due to her, and 1 gave it. 1 told 
her of my father’s death— of the kindness of my uncle and aunt, 
and of my subsequent lif at St. Gurlott’s. 

“ St. Gurlott’s?” she said. “ Is this St. Gurlott’s in Corn- 
wall?” 

1 answered in the affirmative 

“ Then 1 have an aunt living in a place of that name,” she con- 
tinued. “Perhaps you may know her: her name is Mrs. Red- 
ruth.” 

“ Lawd a mussey! wha, that be our master’s mother!” broke in 
my aunt. But 1 added, 

“ Are you sure it’s the same, Miss Graham? This Mrs. Red- 
ruth has a son who owns the mine.” 

“Yes, I know— my cousin George!” she answered; while my 
heart misgave me at the familiar manner in which she mentioned 
the name. “Oh, it must be the same,” she continued, enthusi- 
astically, “ and to think I should be shipwrecked here, of all places 


72 


THE MASTER OF THE MINE. 


in the world! Mr. Tielawney, are they far away? Would it be 
possible to let them know that 1 am here?” 

“ It will be quite possible. Shal] i take a message?” 

” Will you be so kind? Perhaps it you tell her the story anil 
show her this,” she continued, drawing a quaint signet ring from 
her finger, ” my aunt will come to me. This was my dear father’s 
ring, and she knew it well, for he always wore it— and he had it 
on even when he died!” 

1 took the ring from her hand and started off on my mission. 

The events of the last few hours had made me a changed being. 
1 began to wonder if it was all real ; whether 1 had really seen 
Madeline, and whether the one real romance of my life had been 
ruthlessly swept away. It was clear to me now that she thought little 
of the past, and cared for it even less. While I had been living 
upon the memory of those dear da^^s, she had let other events 
obliterate it entirely from her mind. Well, it was clear 1 must do 
the same. 1 must deliver her up to the custody of her relations as 
coldly as if she were a stranger who had casually been cast in my 
path for a day. 

Having made my decision, I became calmer, and walked with 
a steady step up to Redruth House. 1 inquired for the young 
master; learned that he had left for London two days before. 1 
asked for the mistress, and she saw me. Bhe listened to my story 
quietly enough; when 1 showed her the ring, her white face fiushed, 
her hand trembled, and her eyes filled with tears. 

” It is my brother’s, my poor brother’s,” she said, more to her- 
self than to me; then she added, ” My niece is at your cottage, you 
say?” 

‘‘ Yes, madame.” 

” Tell her, 1 will come to her at once.” 

1 left the house and, instead of returning to the cottage, walked 
straight down to the mine. Where was the use of my returning 
to Madeline: to stand by and see that grim and stony-hearted wom- 
an bring to her queenly eyes the light of happiness, to her lips the 
cry of joy, which the sight of my face had failed to do? No; such 
a sight might Jiave roused all that was bad in my nature, 1 was 
better away. 

All day I worked with a fierce persistence which alarmed me. 1 
looked at myself in my mining suit, then recalled Madeline as I had 
seen her that morning— with her soft hands sparkling with gems, 
and the black servant crouching at her feet - and realized more than 
ever the distance that divided us from one another. 


THE MASTER OF THE MINE. 73 

She was the mistress, born to command; 1 , the servant, whose 
business it was to obey. 

1 returned home in the evening, and found the cottage much the 
same as it had always been. Madeline was gone. 

“ She be up at Redruth House, Hugh,” said m3' aunt. ‘‘The 
awful missus came and took her away, and right glad she was to 
go, poor lass!” 

She showed me a five- pound note which Madeline had given her, 
borrowing it from her aunt to do so. She put the note into an 
old work-box where most ot her treasures were kept, and set about 
getting the tea, imagining that the romance of last night^6 wreck 
had ended. 


CHAPTER XV. 

UNDER THE SPELL. 

For some days after that, 1 saw nothing whatever of Madeline; 
indeed, so close was she kept in the great house that she might 
never have existed at all. 1 began to think that she had taken her 
departure from Cornwall, but 1 was wrong. One day, the seventh 
from that on which the life-boat had brought Madeline to shore, i 
made a minute inspection of the mine, which every day grew more 
dangerous, and came up from my work covered with filth from 
head to foot. 1 had passed the last ladder, and stood on terra Jirma, 
at the mouth of the mine, dazzled by the quick transformation from 
pitch darkness to broad. daylight, when my ears were struck by the 
sound ot a voice which passed like sudden music througn my 
frame. 1 rubbed my eyes and looked about me, and there, not far 
from where 1 stood, was my old sweetheart. She was dressed now 
in an elegant costume of gray, which fitted her to perfection; a 
little hat with long plumes was on her head, and hex face, looking 
lovelier than ever, glowed and sparkled in the light: with her rich 
brown skin and sparkling black eyes, her erect carriage, graceful 
tread, she looked like some Eastern princess! She was walking 
toward the spot where 1 stood; George Redruth was beside her; 
while behind followed the black girl, Anita, her dark eyes fixed 
upon her mistress. This sudden encounter had so unnerved mo 
that, for a moment, it deprived me of the power both of speech 
and motion. Quickly recovering myself, however, 1 was about to 
move aw'ay, and so avoid embarrassment, when the master’s voice 
arrested me. 


74 


THE MASTER OF THE MIKE. 


“ Trelawney,” lie said; “ one moment/' 1 paused. 

“ Yes, sir.” 

” Miss Graham w’ishes to go down the mine. 1 tell her it ie im- 
possible. AVhat do you say? Is it fit for a lady?” 

1 was about to reply when Madeline interposed. 

” Don’t worry about it, George,” she said, ” I’ve abandoned the 
idea.” Then, stepping up to me, she held forth her little gloved 
hand. 1 bowed over it, but did not take it, giving as an excuse 
that 1 was not fit to approach her. 

*‘ I dare say you were in quite as forlorn a condition the other 
morning when you snatched me from the wreck,” she said; ‘‘ yet 
you did not hesitate then, when your own life was in peril. Mr. 
Trelawney, take my hand.” 

1 did as she requested, 1 clasped the little hand in both of mine 
and raised it respectfully.^ 1o my lips. In doing so, 1 caught a 
glimpse of George Redruth’s face: it was black as the pit mouth. 

‘‘ Kow, my dear Madeline,” he said, impatiently, ” shall we go 
back?” 

But Madeline was not ready, or perhaps she was too imperious 
to be so ordered by her cousin. She had abandoned all intention 
of descending the mine; but she was, nevertheless, anxious to in- 
spect the outside of it. 

” But you can go,” she said. ” Mr. Trelawney will escort me.” 

“Nonsense!” returned her cousin. “Trelawney has got his 
work to attend to. 1 will stay.” 

And he did stay, for fully two hours; at the end of which time 
she allowed him to take her away. 

Three other days passed without a sign from her; then 1 encount- 
ered her again. It was in the evening, when 1 was walking home. 
This time she was alone; except for the servant, who walked at a 
respectful distance behind her. She came up to me unreservedly, 
and again held forth her hand. Having shaken hands with her, 1 
paused, not very well knowing what to do; when she helped me. 

“ 1 came to walk back with you,” she said. “ Do you mind?” 

“ I mind?'' 1 repeated, in amazement. “ You forget. Miss Gra- 
ham, it is an honor for me to walk beside you.” 

She gave a little impatient toss of her head, and we walked on 
together. For seme time not a word was spoken, but I telt that 
she was watching me keenly. Presently she said, 

“ Do you know what 1 have been doing, Mr. Trelawney?” 
“No.” 


THE MASTEE OF THE MINE. 75 

“ 1 have been trying to find in you one trace of the boy 1 knew 
years ago, at Munster’s— and 1 have failed.” 

“ I don’t understand.” 

” No? Well, 1 will explain. The boy 1 knew was kind to me; 
frank, open-hearted, generous. You are somewhat unfriendly; re- 
served, harsh, and, if 1 may say so, churlish. Why are you so 
changed?” 

‘‘lam not changed, Miss Graham; or, if I am, it is but with the 
tide of fortune, which has ebbed and not fiowed with me since we 
met before. When we were at Munster’s 1 believed we were equals, 
but now — ” 

” Yes; now—” 

“You are Miss Madeline Graham; 1 am the overseer of your 
cousin’s mine.” 

” Then you wish us to remain strangers?” 

” 1 think it would be better.” 

” Ah I you are crueler than 1 though! ; if you will not accept my 
friendship for the sake of the old days when we were boy and girl 
together, you will, at least, have some pity upon me. 1 am lonely 
and among strangers here. You seem like an old friend. It you 
will suffer me to talk to you sometimes it will make my stay here 
more pleasant.” 

Her pleading won the day, and we became friends.- 1 never went 
to Redruth House, and she never came to the cottage. 1 never 
sought her, but quite innocently and frankly she sought me. We 
often went on the moor when, after my long day’s work, 1 was 
making my way home, and 1 could noi regard these meetings as 
purely accidental on her part. She was always accompanied by the 
black girl, until one evening, when she appeared alone. 

‘‘You are looking for Anita?” said Madeline, noting my glance. 
” She has gone to London with my aunt’s maid, and will not re- 
turn till close on midnight. My cousin counseled my staying at 
home to-night, or allowing him to accompany me. 1 knew 1 
should not want for company, so refused to submit. 1 may not 
enjoy these walks much longer.” 

‘‘ What! are you going away?” 1 asked, in some alarm. 

She shrugged her shoulders. “ Perhaps! 1 don’t know; cer- 
tainly 1. shall have to go sooner or later, but 1 -trust it may not be 
sooner. When 1 was shipwrecked here 1 was on my way to Lon- 
don, to take up my abode with some other relations. They are 
troubling me with questions, so 1 have sent up Anita to satisfy 
thjm as to my safety. Yet 1 suppose 1 shall some day have to gu.” 


THK MASTKK OF THE MINE. 


76 

Bhe tried to speak carelessly, yet 1 fancied 1 detected a ring of 
regret in her voice, and 1 quailed before the feeling of desolation 
which her words brought to my heart. 

In that one sentence she had unwittingly shown to me myseli— 
revealed to me the terrible secret which 1 had been vainly trying 
to crush from ray heart. Even as she had influenced my boyhood, 
she influenced my manhood. 

1 loved her with the same unthinking love which had filled my 
soul as a boy — loved her even w^hile 1 felt that such a love might 
be the means of blighting my life. 1 knew that no good could 
come of it, for was she not as far removed from me as the moon 
was removed from the sea? — and yet 1 felt at that moment that to 
love her so, be it only for one hour, was worth w^hole centuries of 
pain. 

She walked with me as tar as the cottage, and, pausing at the 
little wicket gate, gave me her hand. 

“ Good-night, Mr. Trelawney,’" she said, softly; “ it is not good- 
bye yet!” 

Again 1 raised her hand, and pressed it to my lips; then 1 dimly 
remember entering the cottage; but all seemed unreal—save the one 
overmastering fact that, fool that 1 was, 1 was the slave of Made- 
line Graham I 


CHAPTER XVI. 

BY THE SEA. 

The next day was Sunday. 1 rose early and put on my idling 
clothes, a dark suit of tweed. That 1 took more than usual pains 
with myself may be assumed from the fact that my aunt, as 1 
strolled in to breakfast, started, and looked at me from head to foot 
in no little surprise. Then she sighed deeply, and glanced at my 
uncle, who, also dressed for the day, in a suit of solemn black, was 
sitting moodily by the fire. 

For many days past, there had been noticeable a curious change 
in my uncle’s maimer. ]. scarcely observed it at the time, for my 
heart was too full of other and pleasanter impressions; but after- 
ward, when 1 came to think it over, 1 remembered vividly what 
had previously passed without remark. To begin with, he looked 
at least ten years older. His old cheery laugh was gone; and his 
eyes had a hard, far-away look, very different to their former happy 
brightness. Sometimes, as we sat together, ho would rise abmptly 


THE MASTElt OF THE MIKE. 


77 


and pass out of the house, leaving the meal on the table untouched. 
My aunt seemed to forget her own trouble in watching his; and 
nothing could surpass the silent tenderness with which she wailed 
upon him, never breathing a word of her solicitude, but showing 
in a hundred gentle ways her wifely sympathy and devotion. 

On the present occasion we breakfasted very late; and as we sal, 
there came to us, faintly, wafted over the distant moorland, the 
sound of the church bells. My uncle started, listened, and drew 
back his chair. Then, before we could say a word, he seized his 
hat, and left the house. 

“ Gaw after him, Hugh!” cried my aunt — adding quickly, 
‘‘Na, stay! Maybe ’tis better to let ’un be. Oh, Hugh, Hugh, 
he’s never been the same man since our Annie went fra hame!” 

And the tears streamed down her worn cheeks as she spoke, and 
her voice was broken. 

” Don’t fret, aunt,” I said, gently. ” I’m sure Annie is all 
right— indeed, you know from her own letter that no harm has 
come to her,” 

“I’m nawt fretting for Annie, it’s tor father!” was the reply. 

“ 1 dawn’t knaw what there be upon his mind, but he’s larrible 
changed; and what be warst, he won’t speak o’t even to me; but 
keeps it like a canker-warm, a-gnawing and eating out kis life. 1 
were watching him just naw, and 1 knaw’d well what were pass- 
ing through ’un’s mind.” 

“What?” 

“ First he saw thee dressed and smart, and he thought haw his 
Annie, too, would be sitting, ready for church o’ Sundays; and 
dhen the bells sounded, and all the happy time cam’ back upon poor 
father’s heart. Oh, Hugh! if you and Annie had been different to 
one another, father would ha’ been happy still; but Idawift blame 
’ee, lad— it were no fault o’ yourn!’' 

But though she acquitted me in words, there was in her manner 
a certain affectionate reproach. 

“ Aunt,” 1 said, “ 1 would cut off my hand to put things right; 
but Annie never cared for me, and 1 — ” 

1 paused awkwardly, knowing well that 1 had never loved my 
cousin. 

“The Lawd will punish her!” cried my aunt, bitterly. ‘*-l’ll 
ne’er forgie her! If she had stayed at hame like a decent lass, it 
would all ha’ come right i’ the end. But she went wi’ scarce a 
ward, and wherever she be, the Lawd will punish her!” 

“ Kay, nay,” 1 said, ihing and putting my hand on my aunt’s 


78 


THE MASTER OF THE MINE, 


shoulder, “ don’t be hard on pool Annie! She’ll soon come back, 
and then all will be explained.” 

My aunt’s manner changed again, and the tears streamed trom 
her eyes anew. 

” Oh, Hugh, my lad, think you our lassie will ever coom back?” 

” Ot course. ’Twas but a lass’s whim for change; she’ll soon 
tire and return. I’m sure no harm has happened to her, and she 
was always kind and loving.” 

” Saw she were, Hugh, saw she were! Hugh, will ’ee speak to 
father, and try to cheer ’un?” 

1 nodded, then stooping, 1 kissed my aunt on the cheek. The 
Sabbath bells still rang from the distance, clearly and sweetly. The 
sun looked in through the window, and a sunbeam trembled on the 
paven floor. 

‘‘ Shall you gaw to church, lad?” asked my aunt, as 1 moved to 
the door. 

“Not to-day,” 1 replied. “ I’m going for a walk on the moor.” 

She looked at me keenly, and 1 saw that she guessed my secret; 
for the truth was,, 1 was hoping and praying to meet with Made- 
line. With a heavy sigh, she turned away, and began removing 
the breakfast things. 

Once outside, 1 breathed again. It was a calm, beautiful, sunny 
day, with just a touch of frost in the clear sparkling air. Far away 
the sea shone like silver. 

1 hesitated a moment, then walked down the road toward the 
lodge gate— toward the very spot where, years before, 1 had first 
met George Redruth. No one was about; a Sabbath stillness lay 
everywhere; and the faint sound of the far-oft bells only rendered 
it deeper. 

1 paused at the gate, and looked up the avenue. There was no 
sign of any one. 1 longed to walk right up to the great house and 
inquire tor her 1 sought; but 1 lacked the courage. What was 1, 
a common overseer of the mine, to go following the footsteps of a 
proud lady? If 1 could meet her by accident, good and well: but 
1 did not wish even her to suspect that 1 was so anxious for the 
meeting. 

Perhaps she had gone on to church. H so, doubtless George 
liedruth was in her company. I fretted at the thought, and turned 
aw^ay. At last, weary with waiting, I determined to seek forget- 
fulness in a long walk across the moor, such as I had told my 
aunt 1 had intended to take. 

Quitting the road, 1 followed a path which led right over the 


THE MASTEE OF THE MINE. 


^9 


open moorland in the direction of the sea. The air was full of 
lightness and sweetness; but my spirits by this time had sunk to 
freezing-point. As to forgetting the one object of my thought, that 
was simply impossible. My soul was full of one image, which 
went with me at every step i took. 

1 had wandered about a mile when 1 perceived, by the side of a 
lonely moorland tarn — one of those dark, turf- stained pools which 
cast back the light liKe polished ebony, and are often mysteriously 
deep — the figure of a man. He was sitting on a fragment of rock, 
and looking at the water. 

Coming up quickly, I recognized my uncle. 

Our eyes met, but he did not speak. Turning his head away, he 
looked down at the tarn. 

“ Why, uncle,” 1 cried, “ 1 thought you were at church?” 

” Naw, lad,” he answered, still with his head averted; ” naw, 
lad, 1 were in naw mood for to hneel and pray. 1 came out yar on 
the waste land, and I sat down yar, a-thinking.” 

I put my hand upon his shoulder. 

” Uncle, you're not angry? With me, 1 mean?” 

” !Naw, lad,” he replied, in the same low, listless tones. ‘‘ 1 ha’ 
no call to be angry, least of all wi' thee. Don’t 'eemind gang 
your gait, and lea' me here alawn.” 

But 1 remembered my promise to my aunt, and was determined 
not to leave him so. So I sat down by his side, saying: 

“You've no reason to take it so much to heart: it’s malcinr) 
trouble, 1 think, before it comes. 1 know well why you’re fretting 
yourself so much. It’s about Annie; but, take my word for it, 
Annie's all right, and will soon come back home.” 

He turned his face toward mine. How strangely wild and weary 
it seemed, set in its iron-gray hair. 

“ Sometimes 1 think, lad, as she’ll never coom back; and if she 
do, will she e'er again be the same little Annie 1 used to knaw? 
But it's nawt that, my lad, it’s nawt that as is on my mind.” 

“Then what is it? Annie, 1 am sure, is well and happy: so 
what can it be?” 

He looked at me long and steadfastly before he replied. 

“ If my lass went away, it mun ha’ been because o’ trouble; and 
if 'twere trouble, 'tweie a kind that she were feared to tell even to 
her awn father. That letter my Annie writ came from a sore heart 
— may^be a heart some villain had broken; and what 1 think, lad, 
other folks think too —1 ha’ seen them whispering it to one anaw- 
ther, and looking at me P' 


80 


THE MASTER OF THE MINE, 


Of course 1 understood him well enough; for the same thought 
bad often enough been m my own mind. 

“ Whatever lias happened,” 1 said, ‘‘ be sure of one thing— Annie 
is not to blame! Uncle, do you know what I have often suspected? 
j\ly cousin left us only tor a little while, because she wished to be 
out of George Redruth’s way.” 

” What d’ye mean?” he ciied, starting, and tiembling violently. 

“There was something between them. He had won her heart , 
pel haps. Then, distrusting him, and knowing the great distance 
between their stations, she said to herself, ‘ 1 will go away for a 
time till 1 am cured, or till he has left the place.’ ” 

My uncle frowned thoughtfully, and shook his head. 

“ Naw, Hugh - there be more in ’I, than that; but, whate’er it be. 
I’m sure the 3 ^oung master had no hand in ’t. 1 know you never 

liked ’un, Hugh; but Master Jarge has a kind heart, and would 
never do a dirty deed. Why, 1 ha’ knawed him and sarved him 
ever sin’ he were a boy, and I’d trust ’un wi’ my own life.” 

In pity for his trouble, 1 forbore to tell him all 1 knew. Even 
had i done so, 1 believe his simple faith in the “ master ” would 
have remained firm. 

“ It’s of summat else I’m thinking, lad,” he said, after a pause; 
“ summat that were tawld me t’other day by John Rudd. T’hree 
or four days arter Annie went away, John Rudd he saw her in Fal- 
mouth, alawng wi’ that Yankee chap, Johnson, the overseer.” 

He noticed my start of surprise, and continued, 

“ They were standing talking together on the quay, and Annie 
were crying. Maybe there’s summat in it, and maybe nawt; but 
sin’ the night 'she went, overseer chap has been away — folk say, in 
London. Putting this and that tagether, Hugh, ray lad, what do 
it all mean?” 

1 was as puzzled as himself; but 1 hastened to assure him of one 
thing— the utter impossibility of there being any intimate relation- 
ship between my cousin and the pseudo American. He looked 
somewhat incredulous, for in his simple eyes Johnson was a stylish 
and important person, very likely to find favor in the eyes of a 
young woman. 

He rose wearily, and lield out his hand. 

“ Lea’ me to think it out, lad. My mind be fixed that summat ’s 
vrrang, and 1 sha’n’l sleep till 1 knaw tlie truth, the whole Gospel 
truth. 1 ha’ been praying and praying that things be nawt as 1 
ha’ feared, for if any living man had played the villain wi* my 


THE MASTER OF THE MINE. 


<S1 


Annie, Lawd help him! Lawd keep him from the reach o’ my 
hands!” 

As 1 looked into his face, 1 could not help echoing the prayer. 1 
felt certain, aJ the same lime, that his fears and suspicions had shot 
greatly in excess of the truth. 1 knew that scandal was busy with 
poor Annie’s name, and that much of the scandal must have reached 
nis ears; but 1 could not ytt bring myself to believe that Annie’s 
flight betokened anything seriously wrong. Of one thing 1 felt, 
nevertheless, cei tain— that it wrong had been done, George Redruth 
was in some way responsible. 

1 stood and watched my uncle, as he wandered away in the diiec" 
tion of our home; then I turned ;uy face again toward the sea^ and 
wandered on. As 1 went, the moor grew opener and wilder, strewn 
with great stones and bowlders like fragments of the wreck of some 
past world; some huge as menhirs translated thither in some pre- 
historic period of wondrous floods— when the arid waste on which 
1 trod was the oozy bottom of a troubled sea. 

Here and there fed wild cattle, black and horned, like those that 
haunted the svoods of Ancient Britain. In solitary places the buz- 
zard hovered, and by the brink of lonely tarns the heron waded, 
rising up as 1 approached, with sleepy waft of wing. 

At last, after a ramble of several miles, 1 approached the sea 
margin. My path was now on the stony edge of low-lying clifls, 
at the base of which the waters thundered forever. Herel found 
a lonely promontory of black granite, stretching out into the sea, 
and whitened at its limits by the chalky droppings of innumerable 
sea-bh'ds. On a rocky island a few yards from the extreme point 
of the promontory, sat a flock of cormorants; as 1 approached, they 
turned their snake-like necks, but did not rise. 

The sun was warm and bright, the sea calm and shimmering like ' 
steel. I threw myself down on the rocks, and, with face upturned 
to the clear skies, closed my eyes. A large black-winged gull 
wheeled, screaming over me, and then sailed slowly away. All I 
heard was the low murmur of the billows breaking sadly on the 
rocks beneath me — that sound which ” deepens silence,” and has 
such solemn meanings for the troubled human soul. 

Suddenly another sound broke upon ray ear. 1 started, and list- 
ened. The sound seemed to come from the sea itself, and was like 
a mermaid singing. 1 rose quickly, and, crossing the rocks, walked 
in the direction from which the voice came. 

Approaching the edge of the crags, 1 looked down, and saw be- 
neath me, in the very shadow of the promontory, a quiet creek. 


82 


THE MASTER OF THE MINE. 


The rocks fell asunder, leaving a space of sandy beach, some twenty 
yards broad, and closed by the still waters of the sea, which broke 
in a thin fringe of white loam on a sunny slope of white pebble 
and golden sand. 

It was a nook just such as the fable merwomen or sirens might 
have chosen when the world was haunted, and such fair creations 
brightened the sunshine. But what am 1 saying? It was haunted 
still, and by one far sweeter and more winsome than any mere crea- 
tion of a poet’s fancy! 

Lying like a basking seal on the loose shingle just under the 
rocks, and looking up at me with sparkling eyes, was the colored 
girl 'from Demerara; and standing on the water’s edge, with her 
face looking seaward, was Madeline Graham. 


CHAPTER XVll. 

A WALK ACROSS THE MOOR. 

Pull of delight at the unexpected vision, 1 ran down the rocks, 
and soon leaped down upon the beach, close to the spot where Anita 
was lying. ’ She uttered a merry cry in Spanish, which caused her 
mistress to look in my direction. Madeline exhibited no surprise, 
but after a momentary glance, continued her occupation, that of 
writing or drawing something on the sand with the point of her 
parasol. 

1 walked toward her, and greeted her by name. She smiled and 
nodded, but still continued intent upon the sand beneath her. 1 fol- 
lowed the direction of her eyes and to my astonishment read my 
own name, thus : 

Hugh Trelawney, St. Gurlott’s. 

The hot blood rushed to my cheek; but fled again almost imme- 
diately, as 1 read close by the words : 

George Redruth, Esq. 

Both the master’s name and my own were printed large and bold. 
Close by them, smaller in size and in running writing, were the in- 
complete letters on which she was then busy — 

Madeline Gr 

But no sooner had she reached the “ r ” than she glanced up at me, 
laughed merrily, and obliterated it all with her little, daintily booted 
foot. 


THE MASTER OP THE MINE. 


83 


“ What brought you here, Mr. Trelawoey?"’ she said. “ 1 thought 
that you would have been at church.” 

“ 1 thought the same of you,” 1 replied, smiling. 

“ Then you did not follow us?” 

“ Certainly not; though had 1 known, 1 might very possibly have 
done so. But who could have dreamed of finding you in this soli' 
tary place, so far away from home?” 

” My true home is far away indeed,” she answered; and raising 
her hand, she pointed right out to sea. ” Yonder! Sometimes 1 
wish that, as the Scripture says, 1 had wings like a bird that 1 
might fly back!” 

And 1 saw that her beautiful eyes were dim with tears. 

” Have you relations there?” 1 asked. ” Or friends whom you 
love?” 

“Neither friends nor relations. When my dear father died 1 
'w’as left quite solitary. But 1 lived so long there, and was so hap- 
py ! And South America is so beautiful, so different from this dreary 
land!” 

I watched her nervously. 

“ Some day, perhaps, you will return?” 

“ Perhaps, 1 can not tell,” she replied, sadly, and turning on her 
heel, she walked slowly toward the spot where Anila was lying. 
The girl looked up and showed her white teeth, smiling; the smile 
broadened as her mistress spoke to her rapidly in Portuguese. 

“ Anita is of my opinion,” said Madeline; ” she thinks this En- 
glish climate detestable, and she longs for the palms and temples of 
the West. 1 suppose 1 shall have to send her back. The people 
think her a wild savage, because she does not understand their bar- 
barous dialect, and she will never settle in England.” 

1 had my own suspicion that Madeline was laughing at me, and 
that Anita’s smile had a quite different meaning; but 1 was too 
happy in the mere presence of my darling to trouble myself on that 
head. Merely to stand by her side and look into her face, and 
hear her musical voice, was joy sufficient: for never had she seemed 
more bright and beautiful. She wore a rich sealskin cloak, tightly 
fitting, and descending to her knees; a pretty sealskin hat to match ; 
and the parasol she carried was more for use as a walking-stick 
than for a safeguard against the sun. The sea breeze had brought 
the color to her delicate cheek, and the dark eyes were unusually 
light and happy. 

For the time being 1 forgot the social gulf between us, between 
her wealth and my poverty, and talked treely and unrestrainedly 


84 


THE MASTEK OF THE MINE. 


of many things. The old constraint left me, 1 suppose to the im- 
provement of my manners, for Madeline seemed to look at me and 
listen to me with unusual interest. 

“And youV she said, presently. “Shall you remain in this 
lonely Cornwall all your life?” 

The question took mo by surprise, and was difficult to answer. 

“ Who can tell?” I said. “ 1 have often thought of trying my 
fortune across the ocean, but habit has kept me chained to a dull 
place and a cheerless occupation. Sometimes, do you know, Miss 
Graham, 1 think it is all fatality. It seems so strange, for example, 
that 1 should have been brought here at all, and that, even in so 
unlikely a place, we two should have been once more thrown to- 
gether.” 

“ It is fortunate for me^ at any rate, that you became a Cornish- 
man.” 

“ How so?” 

“ Because otherwise, 1 might not have survived— to thank you 
for my life!” 

Was it gratitude, or an even tenderer sentiment, that tilled her 
eyes with such tender meaning, and after one long look, made her 
blush and turn her head away? 1 can not tell; but the look made 
my heart leap, while a new thrill of rapturous hope trembled 
tiirough my veins. 1 glanced at Anita; she was basKing again, 
with closed eyes. Carried beyond myself by the inspiration of the 
moment, 1 took my darling’s hand, 

“ Miss Graham,” 1 said; “ Madeline— may 1 call you again by 
that dear name? ever since we parted, years ago, you have been the 
one memory of my life; and when we met again — ” 

I would have continued impetuously; but gently disengaging her 
hand, she cried, 

“ Anita! come, it is time to go home.” 

The girl seemed to understand, for she sprung to her feet and 
pointed eagerly up the rocks. For myself, 1 stood stupefied and 
ashamed; but turning again to me with a light smile, Madeline 
continued, 

“ Are you returning to the village, Mr. Trelawney? If so, let 
us walk together.” 

Something in her manner convinced me that f had better encroach 
no further, but make the best of my immediate chance of happi- 
ness. So 1 answered eagerly that 1 was at her service, and the next 
minute 1 was piloting her up the rocks. The way was trouble- 


THE MASTEK OF THE MINE. 


85 


some, unci she oftcD needed and accepted liie help of my hand, 
thrilling me through and through with her warm touch. 

At last we left the rock-sown promontory behind us, and stepped 
out on the open heath. We two led the way, while Anita follow^ed 
behind, so slowly that we were soon left practically alone. 

“ How came you to walk so far?” 1 inquired. “ \Ve are three 
or four miles, as the crow flies, from 8t. Gurlott’s.” 

“ Oh, 1 came out early, and the sunshine tempted me on. 1 did 
not think that we had wandered such a distance. Poor Anita will 
be tired out ” 

“ And you?” 

” Oh, I love a long walk!” she replied, gayly. “Even in Deme- 
raia 1 used to wander for hours and hours in the woods; and once 
1 was nearly lost. Night came down suddenly, and 1 had to creep 
into the bole of a great tree; and 1 wasn’t frightened, though 1 
could hear the tiger-cats crying all around me; for the fire-flies 
made it almost as light as day. But poor papa nearly went out of 
his mind, and, after that, would never let me enter the woods 
alone.” 

flow did they find you?” 

“ By beating the woods. There were about a hundred coolies 
carrying torches, and making noise enough to wake the dead. At 
iSst, as they were passing, 1 popped out of my hiding-place, and 
cried, quite coolly, ‘ Here 1 am, papal’ He was terribly angry, but 
1 was soon forgiven.” 

“ It would be a hard heart,” 1 murmured, tenderly, “ that would 
not forgive you anything!” 

8he looked at me merrily, and shook her head. 

” Ah, you don’t know me! Poor papa, if he were alive, could 
tell you a different tale. 1 was always a spoiled child, Mr. Trc- 
lawney.” 

Thus lightly talking, and playing with the merest threads of con- 
versation, to avoid touching I hemes of more dangerous interest, we 
walked across the moor. Though it was winter-tide, the air was 
very close and warm with sunlight, and Anita lagged more and 
more behind. At last we came in sight of the village, and paused 
by the side of the moorland tarn where 1 had parted with my uncle. 
My eyes were fixed earnestly on Madeline, buddenly 1 saw her 
start and change color. 

Following the glance of her eyes, I caught sight of a well-known 
figure approaching. It was George Redruth, elegantly dressed, and 
carrying a walking cane. 


/ 


86 


THE MASTEK OF THE MINE. 


He came up rapidly, and 1 saw by the expression ot his face that 
he was ill pleased. He glanced at me angrily and contemptuously, 
and then addressed his cousin. 

“ Where have you been?'* he cried. “ 1 have been looking for 
you everywhere. Ho you know that it is three o’clock?” 

” I did not know it was so late,” replied Madeline, quietly. 
“ Anita and 1 went wandering across the moor and down to the 
sea-side, where we found Mr. Trelawney.” 

He looked at me again, and 1 saw his brow blacken more and 
more. 

” Lunch was served at halt past one,” he muttered, ” and my 
mother has driven over to afternoon service. 1 won’t trouble Tre- 
lawney any further. Take my arm, and let me see you home.” 

He spoke with the air ot authority habitual with him. 1 was not 
surprised to see Madeline flush angrily, and decline the proffered 
arm. 

” There is plenty of time for that,” she exclaimed. “ See! poor 
Anita is almost exhausted— it would be a charity to assist her: it is 
none to assist me 

Indeed, Anita seemed dead beat. She was seated on a stone, 
about a hundred yards behind us, resting her elbows on her knees, 
her chin in her hands. Redruth glanced toward her and shrug^td 
his shoulders. 

” 1 never go near niggers,” he retorted; ” can’t stand them. 
Pei haps Trelawney is nut so particular, ” he added, with an in- 
sufferable sneer. 

Our eyes met, and a sharp retort was on ray tongue, when Made- 
line broke in, with a touch of his own cutting manner: 

” Anita is not what you so politely call her; and as for Mr. Tre- 
lawney, he is at least a gentlem^in, incapable of making coarse re- 
marks, even at the expense of a social inferior.” 

This eulogium of myself seemed to afford George Redruth in- 
tense amusement. Possibly he thought the wmrd ” gentleman ” 
had an odd sound applied to a person of my position. 1 flushed 
to the temples, but did not trust myself to make any observation. 
NYithout even looking at Redruth, I raised my hat to Madeline, 
and walked rapidly away. 


THE MASTER OF THE MINE. 


8 ? 


CHAPTER XVlll. 

I RECEIVE MY CONGE. 

Absorbed as 1 was in my newly awakened love for Madeline, 1 
failed to notice for some time tlie changes which were going on 
about us; but 1 was soon brought from dreamland by the attitude 
which the young master chose to take. 

It soon became clear to me that his resentment, from whatever 
source it sprung, was leveled against me; and in a short time 1 dis- 
covered that the innocent cause of all these eruptions was Madeline 
herself. 

George Redruth had made up his mind to woo Madeline Gra- 
ham, and he honored me so far as to fear that my presence in St. 
Gurlott’s might be the means of preventing him winning his 
cousin’s hand. A marriage with Madeline would be advan- 
tageous to him, principally because his own position was becoming 
very in^ecuie, he having gambled and bet away most of his fortune, 
and so being in danger of losing the position which her money 
would restore to him. Thus it was that he watched the growing 
friendship between myself and his cousin with ever-increasing 
anger; and finding he could n(»t openly control her, he determined, 
1 afterward learned, to gain his ends by treachery. 

It was not these things, however, to which 1 was able at this time 
to give my entire thoughts; other and more painful matters oc- 
curred which tor a time drove the young master from my mind. 

At home things were going very badly with us. My uncle le- 
mained in the same desponding state, while every day fresh wrinkles 
aj^peared in my aunt’s face — the tears were often wet upon her 
cheek. It seemed a sin for me to be happy while so much grief 
remained at home; and 1 sometimes felt inclined to go right away 
and not return till 1 could bring our lost one along with me. 

1 began to wonder, too, if my uncle could be right when he said 
that the new overseer had a hand in poor Annie’s downfall. It 
was strange, but since the night of Annie’s disappearance Johnson’s 
face had not been seen in St. Gurlott’s. 1 was pondering over a 
solution of all these mysteries when one day an event happened 
which threatened to bring matters to a climax indeed. 

1 had come up from the mine after a prolonged inspection of it, 
tind stood at the entrance, blinded with tallow and droppings, when 


88 


THE MASTER OF THE MliTE- 


suddenly 1 heard a wild sound of voices, and looking round I saw 
two men facing each other, and looking as if they were about to 
close in a deadly grip. One of the men was my uncle, the other 
was Johnson, the overseer. 

At sight of the man whom he believed to be his bitterest foe, all 
my uncle’s feebleness seemed to fall miraculously from him. He 
towered above the other, and raised his clinched fist as if to strike. 

“ "You villain!” he cried, “ You cowardly, treacherous villain! 
Tell me, whar is my lass! Tell me, or, by the Lawd, 1 strike -ee 
dead before me!” ^ 

In another moment the arm would have descended, for Johnson 
was paralyzed with fear; but 1 sprung forward and caught it with 
a cry. My uncle tried to wrench himself free. 

” Let gaw, Hugh!” he cried, fiercely. ” 1 told ’ee what I’d do 
it 1 met the villain, and I’ll do ’t. Look at ’un, the white-faced 
cur; he brought trouble to my lass! And now, while she’s wan- 
derin’ about the earth in misery maybe, he cooms yar to laugh at 
what he’s dawn!” 

1 still held him firmly; and Johnson, cur that he was, seeing that 
the danger was passed, recovered his presence of mind. 

” Perhaps, now you’re a little calmer,” he said, ” you’ll tell me 
what you’re raving about?” 

‘‘Iwill answer for him,” 1 replied. “Where is Annie Pen- 
dragon?” 

He shrugged his shoulders, and raised his brows. 

“ it seems to me you are all raving lunatics together. Why do 
you ask me these things? What do 1 know of the girl?” 

“ You are supposed to have enticed her from her home. You 
were seen with her in Falmouth, and you must know where she is.” 

“ 1 don’t know where she is. 1 met her in Falmouth, it’s true, 
and spoke to her; but her being away from home was no concern 
of mine.” 

“ It’s a lie!” cried my uncle, fiercely; and again he tried to free 
himself from my grasp, but 1 held him firmly. 

“ It’s no use,” I said; “ we sha’n’t mend matters with him. We 
must find out by some other means whether or not he is speaking 
the truth.” 

The result of all this was a serious illness, w^hich laid my uncle 
low, and for some weeks threatened his fife. During this time 
Madeline came frequently to the cottage, accompanied by Anita, 
who carried little tempting things for the poor old man to eat. At 


THE MASTER OF THE MIN 


89 


last the terrible time passed, and he rose from his bed— the feeble 
worn-out wreck of his old self. 

From that day forth his intellect seemed shaken, but he clung 
with strange persistence to the one idea, that Johnson was in some 
way responsible for all that had taken place. X had my own reasous 
for refusing to share this belief; nevertheless, 1 saw the overseer 
again, and after the interview with him, 1 became more firmly con- 
vinced than ever that my uncle was wrong in his surmises. If 
Johnson had a hand in Annie’s fiight, he was not the real wrong- 
doer. 1 still suspected George Kedruth, though as yet 1 had been 
unable to obtain absolute proof of his guilt. 

Meantime, having seen my uncle on the high road to recovery, 1 
was compelled once more to turn my attention to the mine, which 
grew every day more dangerous. 1 had spoken to the master of 
these dangers again and again, and he had taken no heed. So long 
as he was safe above ground it was nothing to him that the lives of 
the men who worked below were in daily jeopardy. Nevertheless, 
1 knew that something must be done; 1 resolved to make one last 
appeal to him, and if that failed in its effect to communicate with 
the members of the company, who, conjointly with himself, owned 
the property. 1 had fully made up my mind to seek him at home, 
when 1 was spared the pains. He strolled down to the counting- 
house one morning in company with Johnson. 

“Mr. Redruth,” 1 said, approaching him, “1 should like to 
speak a few words to you, sir.” 

He looked at me from head to foot with a cold supercilious sneer 
which sent my blood up 1o boiling heat, as he replied, 

‘‘ Well, you can speak then— 1 am all attention.” 

1 glanced at Johnson, but as that worthy made no attempt to go 
1 proceeded. 

” It’s about the mine,” 1 began, when he interrupted me. 

” Oh, the mine!” jie said, impatiently; ” 1 think 1 have heard a 
good deal on this subject from you before?” 

‘‘ You have, sir; and you have taken no heed; but the time has 
passed for all that— each day the danger grows, and now at any 
moment the sea may break in and every soul be killed!” 

While 1 had been speaking, he had been engaged in lighting a 
cigar; when 1 had finished he removed the cigar from his mouth, 
puffed out a volume of smoke, which he watched ascend, and asked 
quietly, 

” Do the men know of the danger which you say is theatenlng 
them?” 


DO 


THE MASTER OF THE MINE, 


“ Most assuredly they dol*' 

“ And do they refuse to work?” 

” No; wheie would be the use? If they left the mine they would 
be thrown out of employment, and then their families would starve. 
Better for them to hold their own lives in their nands than to ex- 
pose their wives and children to such a fate I” 

” Very good; then since by your own showing you are the only 
discontented spirit, it's time for you to go!” 

The cool way in which he uttered these words fairly took away 
my breath. 

” What do you mean?” 1 asked. 

“Just what Isay,” he returned: ” that from to-day you may con- 
sider yourself dismissed from the mine, and had better seek else- 
where for employment If you are dissatisfied, other people are 
not. Mr. Johnson is quite coniented with the state of afiairs, and 
is willing to take your place.” 

Seeing that resistance would be useless, 1 accepted my conge with 
as good a grace as possible, but 1 was determined not to resign 
without freely speaking my mind, so X faced George Redruth 
firmly and said, placing my hand upon his arm just as he was turn- 
ing away, 

” 1 have been expecting this for a long time, and it has come. 
Well, so much the better. 1 warn you, however, that 1 shall do 
my duty, and let the’company know the exact stale of affairs.” 

He turned to Johnson, and I saw the tci^o exchange a significant 
smile; then his face hardened as he replied, contemptuously, 

” You will, of course, do as you please; only oblige me by get- 
ting out of my employment as quickly as possible.” 

‘‘ It will be a good riddance!” muttered Johnson, breaking in 
for the first time. ” Trelawney has always been a croaker.' 

The fellow's insolent leei provoked me more than his master's 
sang-froid. 

i'll croak to some tune,” 1 cried, facing him, ” if you presume 
to talk to me!'" 

“Presume, indeed!” he repeated, turning white with fear or 
malice. “ 'Tain’t much presumption, 1 guess, to take down a 
young cock-o'-the-walk who puts on airs as if he was a gentleman. 
If Mr. George had listened to my advice he’d have got rid ot you 
long ago!” 

“ Come along, Johnson,” said Redruth; “ he's not worth talk- 
ing to.” 

But 1 clinched my fists and blocked the way. 1 suppose there 


THE MASTER OF THE MIME. 


91 


was something in my face which looked ugly, for the two men 
recoiled before me. Several of the miners, attracted by our high 
words, had now gathered, and were looking on in astonishment. 

'* 1 know well an honest man is not wanted here,” 1 said. ” I’ve 
known that tor many a long day. Like master, like man. You, 
sir, want a scoundrel to do your dirty work; and here he is, ready 
made, to your hand— as mean and cowardly a scoundrel as ever 
drew breath!” 

‘‘Out of the way, you ruffian!” cried Redruth, lifting his cane. 

But he knew better than to strike me; he knew that, if he had 
done so, 1 would have thrashed him within an inch of his life; and 
he knew too that not one man there would have raised a linger to 
protect him, though he was the master of the mine. 

But the presence of the onlookers, 1 suppose, made his companion 
foolhardy; for stepping forward, livid with passion, he shook his 
hst in my face. 

” Who are you calling a scoundrel?” he cried. ” Do you know 
who 1 am? I’m overseer of this here mine, and you, you’re a beg- 
gar, that’s what you are! Why, darn you! 1 could eat you up and 
spit you out, and twenty more like you!” 

He had proceeded thus far, garnishing his address with innum- 
erable expletives, which will not bear transcription, when, without 
more parley, unable to resist the provocation of his close proximity, 
1 quietly knocked him down. 

As he tell. George Redruth sprung toward me, and struck at me 
with his cane; but 1 tore the cane from his hand, broke it into 
pieces, and flung it away. 

‘‘ Take care, sir!” 1 said, ” 1 may hurt you too, if you go too 
far.” 

He diew back trembling. 

‘‘You shall smart for this, Trelawney ! Before the day is out you 
shall lie in jail!'* 

*' You know where to And me,” 1 answered; and then, without 
another word, I walked away. 

It was not for hours afterward that 1 realized what 1 had done; 
and even then 1 am afraid 1 did not regret my hasty conduct, 
loung and rash, 1 did not fear to face the world, though the mine 
was my bread, and 1 had no other means of inaintenance. As for 
Redruth’s threat of invoking the law against me, nothing came of 
it. Doubtless, as his own sacred person had not sufiered, he 
thought it best to hold his tongue. 


92 


THE MASTER OF THE MINE. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE NEW OVERSEER, 

The news of my dismissal from the mine was received by my 
aunt with infinite wailing. The poor soul, knowing that for some 
time past 1 had been the mainstay of the house, saw nothing before 
her but misery and starvation; indeed, she was for going straight 
to Redruth House and appealing to the master, but 1 checked her. 

“ Don’t grieve, aunt/’ 1 said. “ It will all be right, by and by. 
Say 1 am dismissed from the mine— what then? The mine isn’t 
all the world. 1 shall get something, never fear.” 

But my aunt shook her head. 

“ It be like young folk to make light o’ things. When you’m a 
bit awlder, Hugh, you’ll see things as 1 do— trouble a:head. ’Tis 
vary easy to talk, but what is there in the village but the mine?” 

” But I’m going up to London, aunt.” 

” To Lunnon! Lawd save the lad!— and what for should ’un 
gaw to Lunnon?” 

‘‘lam going up to see the company, and tell them what’s going 
Oh at the mine. Keep your mind easy till 1 come back, aunt. 
’Twill, maybe, all be right then.” 

But my aunt continued to cry quietly, and grieved as bitterly as 
if she knew of the dark clouds which were gathering above. 

As for my uncle, he sat and listened, and made no remark what- 
ever. 1 concluded he did not understand, so 1 made no attempt 
to trouble him at all. 

There was no time to be lost, and as soon, therefore, as 1 had 
finished my task of comforting my aunt, 1 began to turn over in 
my mind what it would be best for me to do. 1 w^as as fully con- 
scious of the gravity of the situation as my aunt herself, though 1 
had thought fit to make light of it in order to lessen her pain. To 
be turned from the mine meant facing starvation— unless 1 could 
find a similar situation to the one 1 had lost; the only way to facil- 
itate this being to see the company, who might consent to place rne 
over some other mine. Besides, it was necessary that 1 should see 
them and plead the cause of the wretched creatures who daily faced 
death at George Redruth’s command. 

Having fully made up my mind that the journey must be taken, 
I resolved to start on the following morning, and began making my 
preparations accordingly. 


THE MASTER OF THE MINE. 


03 


During the years that 1 had been overseer of the mine my salary 
had not been large, but I had been able to put by a small sum 
weekly. My first care was to break into this, to put into my 
pocket-book sufiScient for my journey and give a sum to my aunt. 

“ Don’t be afraid to use it,” 1 said; “there is more yet; and 
before it’s all gone I’ll have work, please God!” 

My hopefulness, somehow, soon infected my aunt, and she set 
about putting my things together with a brighter face. She dried 
her tears, and lalked quite cheerfully of my going. 

“ They do say,” she said, “ that everything’s for the best, and 
may be ’tis saw naw, though us can’t just see it. Mayhap you’ll 
moft our Annie in London and bring her back to us, Hugh.” 

“ It’s more than likely,” I returned. “ Our black cloud won’t 
last forever, the silver lining must be coming round.” 

When all was ready, 1 stepped down to the village to tell John 
Rudd to call for me on the morrow, when he was to start before 
daybreak. Having done my errand, 1 lif my pipe and strolled 
slowly back to the cottage. 

It was a splendid night. All the earth, hardened by the keen 
touch of frost, was flooded by the brilliant moonrays; and the sky 
was thick wilh stars. All was so quiet and peaceful, 1 could hear 
the click clack of my footsteps on the frosty road. 

My mind was sorely troubled, 1 walked up and down the road 
until my pipe was finished, then 1 knocked out the burned ashes 
upon the ground and turned to re enter the cottage, when 1 started 
back with a ha If -suppressed cry. There, not very far from me, 
standing in the shadow of one of the laurel-bushes in Annie’s gar- 
den, was the tall figure of a woman. She came quickly toward me, 
and laid her hand upon my arm. 

“ Madeline!” 1 murmured, for it was indeed she, dressed in her 
evening dress, with her mantle thrown lightly over her head ancT" 
shoulders, and her dear face raised wistfully to mine. 

“Mr. Trelawney,” she said, quietly, “is it true that you have 
been dismissed from the mine?” 

“ Fes; it’s quite true, Miss Graham.” 

“ Oh, why will you not be as you were just now, and call me 
Madeline,” she cried, passionately. “Why have all those years 
come and gone since we were children, and left us- so far apart, 
Mr. Trelawney. Hugh, let us be children again! 1 was your help 
and solace once, let me be so to-night !” 

She had spoken truly— why should a few years separate us? 


94 


THE MASTEE OF THE MINE. 


Oace before she had offered me her friendship and 1 had accepted 
it: wh}^ not accept it now? 1 took her hand and kissed it. 

“ You shall be the same to me now as you were then!” 1 an- 
swered, ” you shall be my friend!” 

1 think she understood me. She made no reply, but for a mo- 
ment she turned her head aside; when she looked at me again, she 
was as calm as the moorirays which lay all about her. 

“Tell me what has nappened,” she said, “and what you are 
going to do.” 

“Very little has Happened,” 1 replied. “ 1 have got the dismissal 
which 1 have all along expected, and 1 am going away.” 

“ Mr. Trelawney, it was more than sympathy which brought me 
here to-night. 1 want to ask you a question.” 

Yes?” 

“If my cousin offers you the post again, will you take it?” 

I saw in a moment what she meant : that she would intercede for 
me; that the fact of my being reinstated would give that villain 
George Redruth a stronger hold over her; so I answered, firmly, 

“ No; the situation will not be offered to me, and if it was, 1 
should refuse it.” 

“ Your uncle and aunt are dependent upon you, are they not?” 

“Not entirely. My uncle is sufficiently recovered now to resume 
his work. For the last week he has been employed at the rr\puth of 
the mine. If my sins are not visited upon his head, and he is al- 
lowed to remain, they will do very well. As for myself, 1 am 
young and strong; there is no fear for me.” 

She made no answer; and 1, looking at her, noticed, for the first 
time, how thinly she was clad. 

“ Madeline,” I said, “ you will get your death; let me take you 
back.” 

I drew the shawl closer about her shoulders, put her hand upon 
luy arm, and led her away, 

“ Hugh,” she said, presently, “ you have not told me the cause 
of all this trouble. 'Why have you and my cousin disagreed so 
terribly?” 

The very fact that he was her cousin sealed my lips. 

“ There is nothing,” 1 said, “ but what had best be kept between 
man and man.” 

“ Then you absolutely refuse to make any concession?” 

“ 1 refuse to receive any favor from George Redruth.” 

“ Or from me 

“ From you, Madeline?” 


V 


THE HASTEK OF THE MIHE. 


95 


** Yes. lam rich, you know — very rich, and now that you are 
in trouble 1 might help you.^’ 

“ No,’' 1 answered, quickly; “ don't think of it. It is impos- 
sible." 

“ Impossible?" she replied ; ** the word friendship to you means 
nothing." 

‘‘It means that you may give me your sympathy. 1 am grateful 
for that, but 1 can not accept money from you." 

I walked with her as tar as the entrance to the grounds surround- 
ing Redruth House, then 1 left her. 

Her eyes were full of tears as she said good-bye, and her little 
hand clung to mine with a persistence which well-nigh unmanned 
me. 1 was too much beside myself to return to the cottage, so for 
about half a mile I followed the road which led to the mine. It 
was late, there was not a living soul abroad it seemed to me; yet, 
as I turned to retrace my steps, 1 came face to face with a man who 
had evidently been following close upon my heels. It was John- 
son. 

Madeline’s softening influence was still upon me. Yet at sight 
of this evil face it seemed to fade, and there arose within me all 
that was worst in my soul. He paused, blocking my way, and 
sneeringly addressed me— 

" 1 guess, young man," he said, “ you’ll get into worse trouble 
before you’re done. Jest you let the governor see you as 1 saw y^ou 
with Miss Graham to-night I" 

The mention of her name by his foul lips roused me to frenzy. 

"You scoundrel!" 1 cried, "mention that lady’s name again 
and by Heaven I’ll strike you dead where you stand!" 

" Oh," he sneered, " killing’s your game, is it? Repeat that to- 
morrow before witnesses, young man, and your doom’s sealed." 

He passed me by, and walked on toward the mine, while 1, glad 
at heart to be safely away from him, walked with some^speed 
toward home. 

1 found my aunt alone; I asked for my uncle. 

"He be gone back to the mine, Hugh," she returned. "But 
dawn’t ’ee sit up for ’un, lad. 1 dare say Jim Rivers’ll biing 'un 
hame." 

As 1 knew 1 should have to be ready to join John Rudd at five 
o’clock in the morning, 1 to> k my aunt’s advice and went to bed; 
and so soundly did 1 sleep, that 1 heard nothing whatever of my 
uncle’s return. 

When I awoke it was still pitch dark. 1 struck a light, and 


96 


THE MASTER OF THE MINE. 


fouDd that it was four o’clock. 1 therefore got up and began to 
prepare for my journey. 

1 went about my work as quietly as possible, hoping to disturb 
no one; but shortly after 1 entered the kitchen, my uncle appeared 
fully dressed for the day. He looked so white and strange that, for 
a moment, 1 was startled into the belief that something was the 
matter. As nothing seemed to have transpired, however, 1 con* 
eluded it was sorrow at parting with me. 

My God, how the memory of that white wan face came back to 
me in after days! It was the memory of it, and of the patient, pit- 
iful eyes, which sealed my lips when one word might have proved 
my salvation. 

When John Rudd made bis appearance, and my aunt came out 
of the bedroom, and began crying on my shoulder, 1 saw the wan, 
sad eyes of my uncle still fixed upon me. As 1 left the cottage, I 
looked back and found them gazing after me still. 


CHAPTER XX. 

IN LONDON. 

On reaching London, 1 secured a room in a small coflee-house in 
Soho; and, having deposited my luggage, I started off at once to 
the offices of the mining company. It was three o’clock, and 1 
counted 1 might just arrive before they closed. 

1 was astonished, on arriving at my destination, to find that the 
“ offices ” consisted only of a couple of grimy rooms in a side street 
oft Chancery Lane. 1 was received by a dilapidated and somewhat 
dirty old clerk, who was crouched upon a high stool and scribbling 
away at a desk. He informed me that the head of the firm was at 
that moment m his room. 1 was taken to him, and made haste to 
state my case. 

1 soon found that my presence there was compaiatively useless. 
Like master, like man, they say, and certainly George Redruth, in 
forming a company to conduct the mine, had been careful to select 
men w^hose views accorded with his own; besides, my character had 
preceded me; thej had been forewarned of my visit, and to all my 
complaints they had nothing to say. 

Sick at heart i left the place, and walked slowly back toward 
Charing Cross. What my next move would be 1 did not know. 
It was certain 1 could do nothing for the Cornish miners; and since 


THE MASTER OP THE MIKE. 97 

they could not starre, they must be left to trudge on with that grim 
skeleton Death forever by their side! 

Pondering thus, 1 made my way slowly along the crowded 
streets, gazing abstractedly at the sea of faces surrounding me. It 
was Saturday afternoon, and the Strand was thronged. The hum 
of the busy crowd distracted me. 1 turned, intendng to pass down 
one of the side streets and gain the Embankment, when suddenly 1 
stepped face to face with a woman who was coming toward me, and 
uttered a cry. 

It was my cousin Annie! 

But so changed was she that 1 scarcely knew her. She was 
dressed as a lady, and looked like Dne; but her face was pale, her 
eyes looked troubled and sad. She mu*t nave been walkng quick- 
ly, for as 1 turned to face her she almost fell into my arms. 

The cry I gave attracted her; she looked into my face, and knew 
me. 

She paused, ur certain what to do. My sudden appearance there, 
of all places on the earth, was so unexpected, that it completely un- 
nerved her. For a moment she seemed about to fly; then, conquer- 
ing herself, she stood her ground. 

“Hugh!'' she exclaimed. “ here!" 

“ Yes!" 1 answered, sternly enough. “ 1 am here!" 

1 felt no joy in meeting her. Had she come to me poor, despised, 
with the taint of sin upon her, 1 should have taken her in my arms, 
and said, “ You poor repentant child, come home;" but when she 
stood before me in her fine raiment, my heart hardened; for 1 
thought of the heart-broken old people whom she had left. 

My appearance must have been strange, for 1 began to attract 
some attention, when Annie took me by the arm and led me dow)i 
the side-street I had intended to take. We passed on, never utter- 
ing a word, until we came to the Embankment. Then she let go 
my arm and spoke. 

“ Hugh!" she said, “ did you come to London to look for me?" 

“ No. 1 came on other business, but 1 promised to seek you and 
take you back." 

She was still white as death and trembling violently. As I ut- 
tered these words, she shook her head, and her eyes filled with tears. 

“ 1 can not go home, Hugh; not yet," she said, sadly. 

“ Not yet?" 1 repeated. “Will it ever be better for you than it 
is now?" 

“Yes, Hugh; and soon, 1 hope, 1 shall be able to go and cause 
them no trouble." 

i 


98 


THE MASTER OF THE MIHE, 


1 shrugged my shoulders and half turned away, when she laid her 
hand upon my arm again and said, 

“ Hugh, dear Hugh! you have never once taken my hand; you 
have not looked at me as you would have doue some months ago. 
You think 1 have brought shame upon you all; but, indeed, it is 
not so bad as that— I am a lawful wife.” 

” A lawful wife? Whose wife?” 

“ Ah! do not ask me that. 1 can not tell you. But 1 am a wife; 
and some day, very soon, 1 shall be acknowledged. Hugh, will 
5 mu not take my hand, and say that you forgire me?” 

“ I have nothng to forgive,” I replied. ” You did me no wrong; 
but you ruined the happiness of your home, and you have broken 
your father’s heart.” 

” Hugh I” 

” It is as well tor you to hear it, Annie,” 1 continued. ” When 
your flight w^as discovered, your father bore it bravely, w^e thought; 
but it seems he hid the w^orst of his trouble from us. and pined in 
secret, ll has been like a canker-worm gnawing at his heart ; and 
now he is w^eak and feeble, like a weary, worn old man!” 

1 ceased, for Annie had turned away and was crying piteously. 
1 went to her, and took her hand. 

” Annie,” 1 said, ” tell me the name of the man who has been the 
author of all this trouble, and 1 will ask no more.” 

She shook her head. 

” 1 can not tell you, Hugh. Why should you wish to know? 1 
tell you 1 am his wife.” 

” It you are his wu’fe, where is the need of all this secrecy?” 

” There are reasons why he can not acknowledge me just now; 
therefore, I have made a solemn vow never to tell his name until he 
gives me permission. Is it not enough for you to know that 1 have 
not disgraced you, and that lam happy?” 

She certainly did not look happy. Her pale, pained face, which 
was tuined to mine, seemed to give the lie to every word she spoke. 

” Will you tell them at home,” she said, ” that you found me 
well, and that they must not grieve; because some day soon I shall 
come back to them?” 

” Where are you living now?” 1 asked. 

” Close by here,” she repbed, quickl 3 \ ‘‘ 1 was on my way home 
when 1 met you. Wiil you come with me, Hugh? I will show 
3^011 the rooms.” 

1 assented; and she led the way back toward the Strand. She 
walked quickly, and paused before a house in Craven Street. En- 


THE MASTER OF THE MIKE. 99 

tering with a latch key which she carried, she passed up a flight ot 
stairs, and entered a room. 

“ This is wheie 1 live, llugh," she said. 

It was a change indeed from the Cornish kitchen in which she 
had lived all her life. The room was one w'hicn 1 could imagine 
Madeline occupying, but which was singulaily out of place when 
coupled with Annie. 

Having looked about me, 1 prepared to leave. 

“ Where are you going, Hugh?” she asked. ” Home?” 

“I don’t know,” 1 answered. 

” Shall 1 see you again?” 

” That I don’t know. Since you say you are well cared for and 
happy, where is the use of troubling you? Someday, perhaps, when 
your sun begins to set, you’ll find your way back to those who loved 
you long bef(Te this villain crossed your path.” 

] opened the door, stepped across the threshold, and — faced two 
strange men. 

A hand was laid upon my shoulder, and a voice said, 

” Stop, young man I We want you for Murder!'* 

* CHAPTER XXL 

THE INQUEST. 

For ” Murder I” The very word paralyzed me; and 1 looked at 
the man in utter consternation. 

” What do you mean?” L cried, recoiling. ” Who are you?” 

” I’ll tell you all about that presently,” replied the fellow, coolly. 
” In the first place, are you going to make a shindy, or are you 
coming along quietly?” 

As he spoke, two policemen in uniform entered the room. He 
nodded to them; and, with the utmost sang}roidy felt in his pocket 
and drewr out a pair ot handcuffs. 

” Oh, HughI” cried Annie, wildly. ” What is it? What have 
you done?” 

Without answering her, 1 looked wildly at the men; then, acting 
on a mad impulse and quite without reflection, 1 rushed to the 
door. In a moment the men threw themselves upon me, and-tlrere 
was a brief hut fierce struggle; but my strength was of no avail, 
and in a couple of niiirutes 1 was overpowered and handcuffed. 

The man in plain clothes, who had first addressed me, looked at 
me with a grim smile. 


100 


THE MASTER OE THE MINE. 


“ You’re a bold chap,” he said; “ but it’s no use. You’d have 
done mueh better to have come along quietly. Novv IbOkee here. 
I’ve got to tell you that, whatever you say, from this moment for- 
ward, will be used in evidence against you.” 

“ For God's sake, explaini” 1 answered. “ What does it all 
mean? Who is murdered?” 

The man smiled again. 

“ Lord bless us, how innocent we are! You’ll be telling us next 
that your name ain’t Hugh Trelawney, late overseer of the St. Gur- 
lott mine.” 

“ Trelawney is my name, but—” 

“ Of course it is; and Trelawney ’s the name of the man we want 
— the name on this here warrant. My duly is to apprehend you for 
the murder of Mr. Ephraim S. Johnson, the new overseer, who took 
your place.” 

“ Jolmson!— murdered 1” 1 cried. “ It is impossible!” 

“ Oh, no, it ain’t,” returned the imperturbable official. “ De- 
ceased was found at the foot of the cliffs, with his brains knocked 
out, and b^‘aring on his body signs of violence; worse than that, 
he’d been stabbed with a knife; and once more you’re the party we 
want for having done the job.” 

Utterly amazed and horrified, 1 staggered and fell into a chair. 
As for Annie, she seemed completely petrified. 1 can see her white 
face frozen, tearless, aghast! 

There was a pause of several minutes. Certain of his prisoner, 
the officer looked on quietly, and allowed me breathing time. Grad- 
ually, my brain cleared, and 1 became comparatively calm. 

“1 will go with you,” 1 said, “but 1 am perfectly innocent. 
Until this moment, I never ( ven heard of this horrible affair.” 

* Of course not,” returned the officer, cheerfully. “ That’s vvhat 
they all say, young man; and for the metier o’ that, every man’s 
innocent till the law proves him guilty.” 

* But 1 was not even there. 1 left St. Guilott’s two days ago.” 

‘‘ Exactly,” was tlie dry retort; “ you hooked it the very night 

of the murder. The body was found early on the morning of the 
23d, and the warrant was issued yesterday.” 

As he spoke, 1 seemed to feel the net closing round me. Ac first 
thobveiy accusation had seemed preposterous; now, 1 began to un- 
derstand that my position was one of extreme peril. If Johnson 
had really been murdered, and on that night, as now seemed clear, 
1 couid not escape suspicion by a mere alibi. 1 remembered, with 


THE MASTER OF THE MIKE. 


101 


a thrill of horror, my last meeting with the murdered man, just 
before my departure; and my heart sunk within me. 

1 knew my own innocence — but who was guilty? As I asked 
myself the question, 1 looked again at Annie, who w'as still watch- 
ing me intently; and in a moment, as if by an inspiration, I thought 
of her father! Had John Pendragon, in a moment of madness, 
taken the life of the man whom he suspected of betraying his 
daughter?^ The thought was almost too horrible for belief— yet, 
alas! it was not unreasonable. 

'* Kow, then, are you ready?’' said the officer, placing his hand 
upon my shoulder. 

I rose quietly. As 1 did so, Annie sprung toward me with out- 
stretched hands. 

“ Hugh! dear Hugh! tell me you did not do it! 1 can not— can 
not believe that you are guilty!” 

As 1 looked at her, all my spirit darkened and hardened against 
her. 

When the time comes,” 1 said, solemnly, ” may you be as well 
able to answer for your deeds as 1 shall answer for mine. The 
trouble began witli you. If murder has been done, it is your doing 
also — remember that!” 

They were cruel words, and afterward 1 bitterly regretted them; 
but 1 was thinking of her father, and remembering how bitter must 
be her blame, if, by any possibility, he had been driven into crime 
and violence as a consequence of her conduct. Whether she under- 
stood me or not, 1 can not tell; but, hiding her face in her hands, 
she sunk on a couch, hysterically sobbing. 

What followed seemed more like an extraordinary dream than 
cruel waking reality! 1 was led from the house, placed in a cab, 
and driven away. That very afternoon 1 left London by train, and 
late that night was handed over, handcuffed and helpless, to the 
authorities of Falmouth Jail. 

It is a truism, I know, that the best consolation to be found by 
the unjustly accused is the consciousness of their own innocence — 
a consciousness which is said to sweeten sufieiing, and lighten the 
weight of prison chains. My own experience is that innocence has 
no such effect on a man indicted for the foulest of human crimes. 
My first night in jail was, like many that followed it, a night of 
simple horror. Had 1 really been guilty, 1 could not have suffered 
a tithe of what 1 actually endured. 

To begin with, the whole affair w^as so horrible, so unexpected; 
it was like the solid earth opening under my feet to destroy me and 


103 


THE MAST'er of THE MIHE. 


swallow me up. By a strange fatality, Johnson had been killed on 
the very night of my departure, and at a time when 1 was known 
to bear the greatest hostility toward him. Kemembering all 1 had 
read of men unjustly convicted, and even executed on circumstan- 
tial evidence, I thought with a shudder of how my very departure 
might be construed into evidence against me. 

In the extremity of my position, one thought haunted me with 
tormenting cruelty. What would Madeline think, when she heard 
that 1 was accused of a crime so terrible, so cowaraly? 1 could 
bear everything else but the fear that her heart might be turned 
against me. 

My suspense did not last long. The very next day after my ar- 
rival at Falmouth Jail, 1 was taken from the prison, and placed in 
a dog cart, with a policeman at my side and another on the seat 
beside the driver. An inquest on the body of the murdered man 
was to take place that day at St. Gurlott's; and, of course, my pres- 
ence was necessar}". 

How vividly 1 remember that drive! Snow had fallen in the night, 
and the skies w^ere dark and sunless; the whole prospect bitterly 
cold and desolate. We followed the same road that 1 had pursued 
long years before, in company with John Rudd! Then 1 was a lone- 
ly boy; now 1 was a melancholy man. 

1 wore a large ulster* coat, the folds of which covered the hand- 
cuffs on my hands; but 1 fancied that every soul w^e passed knew 
the truth — that 1 was a criminal accused of murder. Talk about the 
consciousness of innocence! 1 could have wept for shame. 

What was a long day’s journey for John Rudd’s slow, old- 
fashioned wagon, with its innumerable stoppages for business, gos- 
sip, or refreshment, was a swift drive of five or six hours on this 
occasion. We started at six in the morning, and before mid-day 
wtre in sight of St. Gurlott’s. 

As we dashed through the village, 1 saw several of the miners 
hanging about; but 1 carefully averted my eyes from theirs. A 
little further on, we passed the door of the cottage where 1 had 
dwelt 80 happily and so long; and 1 saw, wdth a sigh of relief, that 
there was no sign ot any one about. We trotted on, till we reached 
the gate of the avenue leading to Kedrutli House, PI ere, to my 
surprise, the horse was pulled up, while one of the men jumped 
down and threw open the gate. 

We passed up the avenue at a slow trot, and, on arriving in front 
of Redruth House, found the front door wide open and a large 
number of people, both gentry and common i^eople. Hocking round 


THE MASTER OF THE MI^s'E. 


103 


the doorsteps on the lav/n. There was a murmur as 1 appeared, 1 
looked round, but saw no tace 1 knew. 

“Now, then, get dowu!” said luy companion; and 1 alighted. 
As 1 did so, somo-one pressed forward, and i met the honest eyes 
of John Rudd. The poor tellow thrust out his hand to seize mine; 
then tiuding that 1 was haudcufled, drew the hand hastily bacK 
and placed it on m.y shoulder. 

“ Dawn’t be down-hearted, Master Hush !” he cried. “ There be 
not a sawl in St. Gurlott’s believes 'ee killed ’un. So cheer up, 
lad; they’ll soon set ’ee free.’’ 

1 thanked him, with tears standing in rcy eyes, for his kindness 
touched me. Then 1 was led into the house, and in a little while 
was facing the coroner, in the great old-tashioned dining hall, w’here 
the inquest was being held. 

1 forget many of the details ot that miserable day. Only one 
thing 1 vividly remember— the sight of the dead man’s body, 
bl retched out for iuspection in the kitchen. Why 1 was taken to 
see it 1 do not know; tut 1 felt that 1 was closely waiched as Ibtnt 
over it. Poor Johnson! 1 freely forgave him all the trouble he 
had ever caused me, seeing the blood-stained and disfigured mass 
which had once been his living self I 

As the inquest proceeded, 1 realized the full extent of my peril. 
Several of the men came forward (unwillingl}^ enough, 1 am boutid 
to say), and testified to my having quarreled with the murdered 
man and knocked him down. Then the young master, George 
Redruth, gave his testimony — to the effect that 1 had been dis- 
missed from the overseership, and that 1 bore a violent giudge 
against the man who had supplanted me. Finally, it was proved 
that 1 had left St. Gurlott’s some time on the very night ot the 
murder, which was not discovered until the following morning. 

Among the witnesses examined was my aunt.. She looked utter- 
ly overcome with grief, and, on seeing me, would have sprung to 
and embraced me hysterically had she not been withheld. Her 
husband, it was shown, was too ill to attend; but as his evidence 
would have simply corroborated hers, his absence was deemed un- 
important. All she had to say concerned merely my movements on 
the fatal night, and the coroner elicited from her the fact that as 
late as nine in the evening 1 had been in the neighborhood of the 
mine. 

Vague and circumstantial as all the evidence was, it was sufficient 
to decide the jury against me. Dazed and horrified, 1 heard them 
bring in their verdict— a verdict of Willful Murder against “ Hugh 


104 


THE MASTER OF THE MINE. 


Trelawner/' who was straightway committed for trial at the next 
Assizes. 


CHAPTER XXll. 

MADELINE PROVES MY FRIEND. 

After the inquest was over, 1 was led into a small room fitted 
up as a library, still handcuffed and still attended by the two police- 
men who had brought me over. They gave me refreshment — bis- 
cuits, which 1 did not touch, and a glass of wine, which 1 drank 
off eagerly. 

Ever since my arrival at the house, 1 had been looking eagerly 
for some sign of Madeline Graham; but she had not appeared. 
While 1 sat apart, however, George Redruth entered the room, and 
after glancing at me with (1 thought) a certain compassion, addressed 
me. 

“ This is a bad business, Trelawney,’^ he said, looking very pale 
and agitated. 

I glanced at him, but made no reply. 

“Let me tell you, however,” he continued, “ that ugly as the 
evidence looks against you, 1 hope that you’ll succeed in proving 
your innocence at the trial, 1 haven’t much cause to love you, and 
poor Johnson had still less; but upon my word, 1 believe you in- 
capable of such a Clime as this.” 

“ Thank you, sir,” 1 replied, trembling, for 1 could have borne 
his anger or indifference better than his sympathy. “ You at least 
do me that justice!” 

He nodded assent, and was about to say something more, when 
there was the rustle of a dress behind him, and with a quick start, 
and a sharp pain at the heart, 1 saw Madeline standing in the room. 
The sight ol her was almost more than 1 could bear; 1 i^hoots like a 
leaf, and my eyes filled with tears. The next moment she stepped 
forward with an eager cry of recognition, and both hands outreach- 
ing. Then, seeing that 1 was handcuffed, she uttered another cry 
— of grief and pain. 

“ Madeline!” cried her cousin, warningly; but she paid no at- 
tention. 1 had turned my head away, too ashamed to meet her 
gaze, but 1 felt, rather than saw, that she was gazing tenderly into 
my face. 

When she spoke, her voice was broken and tearful. 

“ Mr. Trelawney! may 1 speak to you? May 1 tell you how my 


THE MASTER OF THE MIKE. 


105 


heart aches and bleeds for you, in your great trouble? May 1 as- 
sure you how deeply 1 believe— as all who know you must believe— 
in your innocence of such a crime?’’ 

1 turned my head and looked at her; my head swam, and the 
tears so blinded me that 1 could not see her. 

“ God bless you for saying that!” 1 murmured; and as 1 spoke, 
she lifted my two bound hands, and held them gently in her own. 

” 1 could not believe that any one would think it possible,” she 
said. ” 1 would have come before, but waited, expecting to see 
you set at liberty. But now 1 hear you are to be put upon your 
trial! A.h, do not fear! Have courage! Your innocence will be 
proved, and you will soon be a free man.” 

‘‘ Perhaps,” 1 answered; ” but whether or not, it is something 
to know that my innocence is believed in by youT' 

” How could 1 doubt it? Dear Mr. Trelawney, 1 know you bet- 
ter even than you know yourself. Ko proof, however terrible, 
could shake my faith in one whom 1 know to be the bravest and 
best of men; one who is incapable of any baseness, one to whom, 
remember, 1 owe my life.” 

She turned to Redruth who was looking on, I thought, rather 
uneasily. 

‘‘ And my cousin is equally certain that you are falsely accused. 
George, speak to him! Tell him!” 

1 looked at George Redruth: his brow was clouded, and his ex- 
pression far less cordial than it had previously been. 

” 1 have already told Trelawney what 1 think on the subject. 
Nevertheless, the evidence is ugly, as he is aware,” 

“ But you know he is innocent !” cried Madeline. 

” 1 ?iope so. Whoever took poor Johnson’s life was a miserable 
and ruffianly coward, well deserving the gallows; and 1 can’t fanej^ 
that Trelawney, in spite of his violent temper, is anything of the 
kind.” 

There was something in his manner, now, which aroused all the 
angry blood rvithin me. His old superciliousness had returned, 
and the compassion in his eyes had changed to hard dislike and 
suspicion. 1 could not trust myself to answer him, but, turning to 
the police officers, who sat by, i cried— 

” How long am 1 to remain here? Take me away! For God’s 
sake take me away!” 

” All right,” replied one of them. ‘‘ The trap’s at the door.’* 

i rose to my feet, and then, setting my lips firm to conquer my 
agitation, 1 turned again to Madeline. 


106 


THE MASTER OF THE MIKE. 


“ Don’t mind me. Miss Grabam. 1 shall come through this 
trouble right enough, perhaps; and, whatever happens, I sha’n’t 
forget your goodness., 1 cared for no one's guod opinion but yours. 
I’m not the first innocent man, by many, who has had to face an 
unjust accusation, and answer it with his life; and what you have 
said to me will give me courage, perhaps, to bear the sorrow that’s 
to come!’' 

Before 1 realized what she was doing, she had taken my hands 
again, had raised them to her lips, and kissed them! 

“ Don’t! don’t!” 1 cried, half sobbing. ” 1 can’t bear it! Here, 
lads, take me away!” 

” Use him kindly/’ she cried, weeping, and addressing the 
officers. ” Remember, he is a gentleman, and falsely accused.” 

‘‘ Don’t be afraid, my lady,” said the man who had previously 
spoken. ” 11 look after him.” 

” And Mr. Trelawney— -dear friend— do not think that, though 
we part now, 1 shall be idle. 1 am rich, remember, and whatever 
money can do for your defense shall be done by me. It is a poor 
return, indeed, for the life you gave me! Keep a good heart! 
Think that you have friends working for you, praying for you! 
Think that the happy time will soon come when you will be free 
again to return to those you love, who love you, and who will love 
you the better for a trouble bravely borne!” 

In the rapture of that moment, 1 should have caught her in my 
arms, but 1 was helpless, and perhaps it was better so. Gently, bu^ 
firmly, the officers led me from the room, and along the passage to 
the door, where the dog-cart was waiting. There was a crowd 
about the doorsteps and when 1 appeared there was a sympathetic 
murmur. 

The officers pushed me through the groups, and 1 mounted to my 
seat in the trap. Then 1 heard a wild cry, and saw my aunt, who 
rushed forward, reaching up her hands to touch mine. 

” Hugh, my poor Hugh!” she sobbed. 

” Don’t cry, aunt,” 1 said, forcing a smile. ” They don’t hang 
innocent men in England. 1 shall soon come back home!” 

At that there was a faint hurrah, led by John Rudd. Several 
rough fellows from the mine rushed forward, reaching out their 
horny hands in honest sympathy. 

” Cbeer up, Measter Hugh! None o’ us believes you killed ’un! 
Cheer up! We’ll ha’ you back in St. Gurlott’s soon.” 

” Iss, that we will!” echoed John Rudd. 


107 


THE MASTER OF THE MIKE, 

TLe officer had now mounted beside me; and his companion, who 
was seated by the driver, cried in a loud voice: 

“ Clear the way there! Let go her head!” 

The horse, freshened by rest and a feed, bounded off, and 1 left 
the group of sympathizers behind— my poor aunt, half fainting, 
supported by John Rudd. But on the doorstep tinder the porch 
stood two figures, on which my eyes were riveted till the last— 
George Redruth and Madeline Graham. 

Madeline waved a white handkerchief. I could make no sign in 
return, but 1 watched her with streaming eyes till we entered the 
avenue, and the boughs of the leafless trees blotted her from my 
view. 

Of that sad day’s business, only one more vivid memory remains 
to me. Slight and trivial as the circumstance seemed at the time, 
I remembered it afterward with a wondering thrill. 

Our way back, like our way coming, lay past the old cottage. 
Quitting the gates of the great house, and leaving the dark avenue 
behind us, we rattled swiftly along the country road. The horse, 
being homeward bound, whirled us along at full speed; indeed, as 
the poet has it, 

“ We seemed in running to devour the way.” 

As we approached the dear old cottage, 1 craned my neck round to 
look at it; the next moment we dashed past it; but in that moment 
I cnught the glimpse of a ghastly white face looking out of one of 
the lower windows. 

It was the face of my uncle, John Pendragon! As we passed, he 
seemed to give a wild start of recognition. 

Then, looking back, 1 saw, before we were fifty yards away, a 
figure, wild and half dressed, running out across the garden to the 
gate, and looking after us. It was my uncle. He seemed dazed 
and stupefied. As we disappeared round a turning of the road, I 
fancied 1 caught the sound of a sharp cry. and simultaneously 1 
saw him throw his two arms wildly up into the air! 


CHAPTER XXILl. 

THE TRLiL. 

It is not my intention to trouble the reader with chapters full 
of appeals ad misericordiam, or to pile up the agony in the mariner 
of the expert manufacturer of sensational fiction; though, if I 
chose to do so, there is plenty of material ready to my hand. 1 


108 


THE MASTi:U OF THE MIHE. 


have my doubts, perhaps, whether 1 am personally interesting 
enough to sway the sympathy of the tender-hearted, in the character 
of a man unjustly accused of the most horrible of human crimes. 
But the mere fact that 1 survive to write these lines is proof positive 
of one thing — that 1 n^as not hanged! So, on that score at least, 
the reader may be perfectly easy in his mind. 

The Assizes came on some six weeks after the date of the in- 
quest, and in the interim 1 found that my darling did not fail to 
keep her word. A firm of solicitors, instructed by her, undertook 
my defense; and though 1 at first, out of my motives ot pride, de- 
clined their good offices, 1 was finally persuaded to accept them. 
Though their managing clerk, 1 more than once received kindly 
messages from Madeline, but not once did she appear upon the 
scene personally until the day of the trial came, when, on entering 
the dock, 1 saw her sitting by George Redruth’s side iu the crowded 
court. 

My aunt and uncle were there, too— the latter so worn and 
changed that I should scarcely have recognized him; so was honest 
John Rudd, together with other old friends and acquaintances. 
But before the trial began, all those who were called as witnesses 
withdrew, George Redruth among the number. My darling re- 
mained in her place, close to my counsel and solicitors, in the well 
beneath the judge’s seat; and more than once, in the course of the 
proceedings, 1 saw her whisper words of instruction and suggestion 
to my defenders. 

Thinking it all over again now, in the quiet of these after years, 
1 am sure still, as 1 was sure then, that her face helped to save me. 
Its pathetic beauty and sympathy, 1 believe, touched the heart of 
the jury, and wrought wonders in my behalf. Even the judge, 
who had what is known as a “ hanging ” reputation, looked down 
upon her with eyes ot favor. 

Early in the course of the proceedings, I heard whispers among 
the crowd surrounding me. They were looking at Madeline, and 
some one was asking who she might be. A voice replied (how well 
I remember it, and how my pale face went red with proud surpiise) 
that she was “ the prisoner’s sweetheart.” Far away as 1 knew 
that idea to be from the simple truth, 1 looked at my darling with 
new feelings ot love and gratitude, and almost forgot for a moment 
the great and impassable barrier between us. 

After the speech for the prosecution, in which 1 was painted in 
vivid colors as a young man of violent habits, having a homicidal 
hatred to the murdered man, the first witnesses deponed to the find- 


THE MASTER OF THE MINE. 


109 


ing of the body and to the marks of violence upon it. Then George 
Kedruth described my last quarrel with Johnson, and my dismissal 
from the overseership of the mine. On this occasion, 1 fear, Red- 
ruth rather exaggerated than underestimated the extent of my 
hostility; and when asked if he personally thought that the de- 
ceased bad any reason to fear my violence, hesitated and answered 
that “ he was afraid he had.'' 1 saw Madeline start and look ap- 
pealingly at the witness, while a low murmur ran through the 
court. On the whole, Redruth’s evidence, though given with a 
certain reluctance, was very hostile. 1 could not help feeling that 
it was none the less so because Madeline was seated there with my 
defenders, and working so zealously on my behalf. 

My aunt next described my doings on the night of my departure 
from St. Gurlott’s, and again admitted, as at the inquest, that 1 had 
been at a late hour in the neighborhood of the mine. Then my 
uncle entered the box. Ghastly and woe-begone, clad in his Sab- 
bath clothes of black, he stoocMike a man dazed; not once turning 
his eyes in my direction. His evidence only corroborated that of 
my aunt; but unimportant as it was, he gave it with extreme reluc- 
tance. 

After the prosecuting counsel was done with him, he was ques- 
tioned by my owm counsel, as follows: — 

“On the night of the murder, you were at tome with the 
prisoner?” 

“Iss, sir.” 

“ Hid you see him go out?” 

“ 1 disremember. 1 took naw note o’t; and ma memory's failing 
me.” 

“ Ah; you have been ill for some time?” 

“Nawt just myself like, sir.” 

“ Had you any reason to imagine that the prisoner bore any ani- 
mosity to the deceased? Did he ever in your hearing utter any 
throats against him?” 

“ Kever, sir; nawt one ward.” 

“ So far as you know, he had no cause to dislike deceased, beyond 
the fact that he had taken his place as overseer?” 

1 saw my uncle trembling violently; but his answer caine clear 
and firm, 

“ Nawt as I knaws on, sir; and 1 knaw this, he ne’er meant to 
harm ’un.” 

“On the night in question, did the prisoner show any agita- 
tion?” 


110 


THE l^IASTER OF THE MIHE. 

“Kaw, sir; tho’ he were a bit put out at gawing awa’ fro’ 
home.” 

” Did he show on his person any signs of violence, as of a strug- 
gle?’^ 

” Naw, sir; nawt he.” 

” That will do. You may stand down.” 

SStill carefully averting his eyes from mine, my uncle left the 
box. 

All that could be said was said in my defense. My witnesses to 
character included John Rudd and other local worthies; but all 
this testimony would have been of little avail without that which 
followed. To my intense surprise, Madeline herself entered the 
box as a witness on my side; and though what she had to say was 
practically irrelevant, though it concerned chiefly my saving of her 
life from shipwreck, it worked wonders for me. Rever shall 1 
forget the thrill of joy that went through me as she said, in answer 
to a question; 

“No one who knows the prisoner believes him capable of this or 
any crime. He is the bravest and truest man 1 have ever met.” 

It was at this point that the prosecuting counsel rose, and said, 
very suavely, 

“ Excuse me. Miss Graham— but you have a great interest in the 
prisoner?” 

” A very great interest,” replied Madeline, looking him calmly 
in the face. 

‘‘ A tender interest, perhaps? Am 1 wrong in believing that there 
has been an engagement between you?” 

1 could have knocked the fellow^ flown. Madeline went crimson, 
but recovering herself in a moment, steadily replied, 

” That is not true. My engagement with Mr. Trelawney is one of 
gratitude, to the man wdio raved my life at the risk of his own.” 

The counsel lost something by this passage of arms, and 1 gained 
much. Madeline’s reply was greeted with the approval of the en- 
tire court. For myself, 1 felt all my being flooded with a great 
joy, which carried me along in a fearless mood till the end of the 
proceedings. After my darling’s lender proclamation of her belief 
in my innocence, 1 cared not what other man or woman in the 
world might believe me guilty; or, indeed, what became of my life. 
1 was justified in her sight, that was enough. 

After a trial which lasted only the greater part of one day, the 
judge summed up— sternly enough, 1 thought— and the jui}' retired 
to consider their verdict. Now, for the first time during the pro- 


THE MASTER OF THE MINE. 


Ill 


ceedings, 1 realized my position. My life hung in the balance, and 
a few minutes would decide whether 1 was to live or die. 

The jury returned into the box, and the judge also reappeared in 
his place. The foreman stood up, and replied, in answer to the 
clerk of the couit*s question whether 1 was guilty ur not guilty: 

“We are agreed that there is not sufficient evidence to convict 
the prisoner.’" 

“ That is no verdict at all,” cried the judge, sharply. “You 
must decide one way or another— guilty or tjot guilty.” 

Fcr a moment the foreman seemed dubious, and, stooping to his 
companions, spoke to them in a whisper. Then he said, 

“Not guilty, my lord.” 

1 was acquitted, but the manner of the acquittal was cruel 
enough, leaving it clear that the moral presumption was against 
me, though the evidence was inadequate. I did not quite realize 
this at the time, but 1 had bitter cause to remember it afterward. 

A little later, 1 was standing, a free man, in the parlor of a small 
inn, w^hither I had been led by John Kudd, and where 1 found my 
aunt and uncle waiting forme. 1 can not say that it was altogether 
a joyful meeting. The shadow of death seemed still upon us all. 
John Rudd alone was jubilant, and insisted on drinking healths all 
round. My uncle, usually an abstemious man, drank eagerly, but 
the drink, instead of cheering him, seemed to make him gloomier 
than ever. 

It had been arranged that ncy aunt and uncle were to return in 
the wagon that evening with John Rudd, Who had postponed the 
hour of his departure in order to await the result of the trial, ana 
the.y urged me eagerly to accompany them. 1 was in no hurry, 
however, to hasten back to St. Gurlott’s. My plans, as far as I 
was as yet able to shape them, were to leave England, perhaps work- 
ing nut my passage to the Colonies on some outward-bound vessel. 

While we were sitting together, a waiting-girl beckoned me out; 
and following her into another room, 1 found Madeline waiting to 
speak to me. Direct our eyes met, she held out both her hands, 
and 1 took them eagerly in mine. Then, for the first time, my 
emotion mastered me; and, fairly sobbing, I almost sunk upon my 
Knees before her. 

“ I was right, you see,” she said, tenderly. “ 1 knew they 
would never condemn you.” 

“ 1 owe my life to you,” 1 answered, in a voice choked "with tears. 

i3he smiled sweetly, and shook her head. 

“ Even if it were so, it is only doing as 1 hatre been done by; hut 


112 


THE MASTEll OF THE MIJSTE. 


no one ever doubted your innocence Irom the first. And now, tell 
me, what are you going to do? Of course, you are returning to Si. 
Gurlott's?” 

“ 1 can not tell. God help me, 1 can hardly realize it all yeti It 
will never be the same place to me again.” 

“Suppose,” she said, looking at me thoughtfully, “suppose 1 
could persuade my cousin to reinstate you as overseer of the mine.” 

“ He would never do that,” 1 replied; “ and even were he will- 
ing, it would be impossible. It is like you, it is like your heavenly 
goodness to think of it; but it is out of the question. 1 think there 
is but one course for me to adopt, and that is— to leave England.” 

“ You must not!” she cried, quickly. “ For all our sakesi for 
mine!” , 

“ For your sake?” I returned. 

“Yes, surely.” 

“ You- -you would wish me to stay?” 

She looked embarrassed, but almost instantly replied: 

“ 1 es. 1 should not like to tliink that you had been driven away. 
St Gurlott’s is your home— why should you quit it?” 

1 could not answer her. ] could not speak to her again of my 
poverty, my want of foothold in the world. 1 could not remind 
her that all 1 cared for in England was hei friendship and sweet 
companionship, which 1 knew, alas! could not long be mine. But 
as 1 looked into her face, and thought of the hopeless distance be- 
tween us, there ran through my brain the words of the beautiful 
old song:— 

“ Altho’ thou maun never be mine, 

Altho’ even hope is denied, 

’Tis sweeter for thee despairing 
Than aught in the world beside 1” 

After a little space she spoke again: 

“ Whether you n turn there or not, at least you will let me help 
you.” 

“ Help me? Have you not done so— ah, far more than 1 de- 
serve?” 

“ But 1 am rich, while you arc poor.” 

“ Not so poor as that/' 1 answered, eagerly, “ not so poor that 1 
would take money even from your hand. Ah— do not ask me! 
To deny you anything gives me pain, but let me keep my inde- 
pendence— all Uiat my ill fortune has left me in the world.” 

“ Promise me at least one thing.” 

“ Yes.” 


THE MASTER OF THE MIKE. 


113 


Not to depart trom England without letting me know— with- 
out seeing me again.” 

“ I’ll promise that freely. Then you— you will permit me to see 
you once more?” 

She smiled her answer. After a few more words, she held out 
her hand and said ” Good-bye.” 1 walked with her to the inn door, 

“My cousin is waiting for me in the market-place,” she said. 
“ lie is going to drive me back to Redruth House.” 

As she spoke, George Redruth himself appeared, turning the 
corner of the street in a high dog-cart, driven by himself, and 
drawn by a pair of fine bays. He came up at a walk, and directly 
his eyes fell upon us, his face grew black as thunder. 

He pulled up, while the groom sprung down and went to the 
horses’ heads. 

“ 1 couldn’t think where you’d got to!” he cried. “ 1 have been 
waiting for the last hour.” 

“ 1 came to speak to Mr. Trelawney,” replied Madeline, quietly, 
“ and to congratulate him on his acijuittal.” 

“ So it seems. Well, we’ve a long drive before us, and it’s time 
we were oft.” 

He did not even look at me until just as 1 had assisted Madeline 
to her place by his side, when our eyes met, and 1 saw in his face 
an expression of merciless jealousy and hate, 1 knew then that he 
was mad at my escape— that, in his cold dislike and distrust of me, 
he would gladly have witnessed my condemnation to a miserable 
death. 

“Good-bye, Mr. Trelawney!” cried Madeline, grasping my hand 
again. “ Good-by; and do not forget your promise.” 

A sharp cut of the w^hip started oft the horses, and 1 had to draw 
back hastily to avoid the carriage wheels. As they drove away, I 
saw her turn to her companion and address him — 1 fancied, re- 
proachfully. 1 stood dazed, watching them until they disappeared. 

An hour or so later, my uncle and my aunt went away in the 
wagon, under the escort of John Rudd. 1 promised to follow them 
home in a day or two, and in the meantime to look about for some 
kind of employment. So 1 remained in Falmouth for several days. 

What was 1 to do? The future was, dark before me, and 1 was 
altogether at a loss how to act. My only practical knowledge, as 
a man of business, was connected with copper mining; beyond 
that, 1 knew nothing. However, 1 w^as fairly educated, and quite 
ready to turn my hand to anything. 1 searched the newspapeis. 
Finding a clerkship vacant in a mine somewhere in South Wales, 1 


114 


THE MASTER OF THE MmE. 


wrote in for it—oiily to find that my misfortune had preceded me, 
and that the owners refused to employ a man who had just been 
accused ot murder. The same fate dogged me in every quarter. 
To my horror, 1 at last realized the fact that, although 1 was free, 
1 had been acquitted under such circumstances as left undestroyea 
the black presumption of my guilt. 

1 sasv no hope now, save in speedy departure from England. 1 
wmuld cross the seas under an assumed name, and begin a new 
life in a new world. A new life? Alas! every fine fiber of my 
nature was bound to the old life and the old land. In quitting 
England, 1 must quit Madeline, 1 must part forever with the only 
being who had made my wretched lot endurable, and whom 1 still 
dared to love with all the passion of my soul. 

1 was mooning one day on the sea-shore, close to the ^uay, when 
a hand was placed on my shoulder, and, looking up, 1 saw the 
kindly face ot my old friend the carrier. 

“ Back again, John?” 1 said, taking his great hand in mine. 

“ Iss, Measter Hugh; 1 corned in late last night.” 

” How are all at home?” 

” Middling, middling. The awld man be queer still, and folk 
say the trouble about Miss Annie ha’ turned his head. But that’s 
what 1 want to speak ou. 1 ha' seen her — she be here, in Fal- 
mouth, Measter Hugh.” 

“ She f Do you mean my cousin Annie?” 

” Saitinly.. 1 saw her last night wi’ my awn two eyes, and 1 
misdoubt she’s in trouble.” 

Then the good fellow, with tears standing in his eyes, told me 
that late on the previous t^vening he had caught sight of my cousin 
in ihe poorest part of the towm, close to lh,e stables where he put up 
his horse. She was wretchedly attired and looked w'orn and ill, as 
if she had just risen from a bed of sickness. His first impulse w'as 
to speak to her; but finding that he was unseen and unrecognized, 
he chose rather to follow her; which he did, and tracked her to a 
poor lodging in a neighborhood of very doubtful reputation. 

Remembering my last meeting with Annie, and how 1 hbd found 
her surrounded by all the indications pf comfort and even luxury, 
1 was stupefied. What had happened, and wiiy had she come to 
Falmouth? On these points John Rudd could give me no informa- 
tion. All he could say was that he had seen her, and was quite 
certain ot her ideniity. 

My mind was, of course, made up at once. 1 w ould see my poor 
cousin, and, if possible, persuade her to return home in my company. 


.THE MASTER OF THE MINE. 


115 


So 1 told .1ohn Rudd to lead the w&y, and we walked rapidly up 
tbe town till we found the neiohhorhood of which he had spoken. 
It was miserable indeed— a place of dark and fishy dens clustering 
close to the wharves; the streets narrow ard liberally ornamented 
with drying clothes, suspended on lines stretched from house to 
house; the inhabitants unclean and ragged waterside characters of 
predatory habits. 

It was one of a small row of houses in a lane facing the beach. 
John Rudd pointed it out, and 1 had hoped to approach unob- 
served; but as 1 neared the door, which stood wide open, 1 saw a 
white face gazing at me from the lower window, and 1 recognized 
my cousin. 

The moment she saw me she started back and disappeared; but, 
with her name upon m}^ lips, 1 ran into the house, and entered the 
room where she was standing, pale and terrified, as if eager to es- 
cape. 

“Annie!” 1 cried. 

She uttered a lew cry, and, pressing her hand upon her heart, tot- 
tered as it about to fall; but, striding forward, I caught her in my 
arms. • 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

THE PRODIGAL DAUGHTER. 

Yes; it was Annie, though for a time I could scarcely believe the 
evidence of my own eyes. She was so white and thin, so poorly 
clad, and living in such a den. Truly her sun had si t and, as 1 
predicted, she was wending her way home. She cried out at eight 
of me, and, instead of giving me a welcome, she hid her face and 
moaned. 1 telt no animosity toward her now; whatever she hud 
done, she had been bitterly punished. 1 took her in my arms and 
tried to comfort her, 

“ Annie,” 1 said, “ my poor Annie, tell me what has happened 
to you, that 1 find you like this?” 

But she could not answer me for crying. Then she fell back, 
half fainting, in a chair. 

We soon discovered the cause of her weakness— it was hunger. 
The poor thing had spent her last shilling, and had not eaten a 
crust since the morning; and, had we not found her, she would 
have spent that night starving in the streets. It was the work of 
a few moments for John Rudd to run out and return with some 


116 THE MASTER OF THE MIME. ' 

bread and wine. We dipped the bread in the wine, and forced her 
to eat; and after a few mouthfuls, she revived a bit. The coltxr 
came into her wan cheeks, and her eyes grew a bit brighter. 1 
now hail leisure to observe her more closely, and 1 was horrified to 
see that the clothing she wore was of the poorest; indeed, she was 
almost in rags, every available article having been pawned, as 1 
soon learned, to keep her from absolute starvation. 

When she came wholly to herself again, she looked at me fear- 
fully-dreading lest 1 should question her again; and 1 thought it 
better to let my questions rest. 

“ Annie,” I said, “ do you feel strong enough to go now?” 

‘"To go, Hugh?” she repeated. 

“Yes; 1 must take you with me to my rooms. 1 can’t leave 
you here!” 

She was too ill to offer much resistance; so, after 1 had paid the 
few shillings that she was owing, we left that miserable den 
together —Annie, still faint and very weak, leaning heavily upon 
me. After he had brought in the bread and wine, John Rudd had 
quietly kept in the background, thinking that his presence might 
serve to further upset Annie. He now as unobtrusively took his 
departure, after having whispered in my ear that he would call for 
us in the morning. 1 took his hint, and determined to act upon it. 

The night was very cold, and as we left the houses and passed 
down the street, facing the chilly wind, I felt Annie tremble vio- 
lently, so I hurried her along and we soon reached the house where 
1 had taken my rooms. Had 1 not crept into such good odor 
through my acquaintance with honest John Rudd, 1 should have 
been almost afraid to take poor Annie into the house; as it was, 1 
expected a cold greeting; but to my amazement we were received 
with open arms. 1 afterward discovered that John Rudd had been 
before us, and had prepared the way for our coming. So when the 
door was opened the landlady, who was a good kind soul, came for- 
ward and almost took poor Annie in her arms, and led her, half- 
fainting, up to the little sitting-room. 

1 gave her my bedroom that night, and, rolling myself in a rug, 
lay down on the sofa in my little sitting-room and tried to sleep; 
but it was impossible, and aftei awhile 1 got up and began to walk 
about the room. Annie’s room adjoined mine; so 1 could hear 
that she, too, was awake and crying bitlerly. Unce 1 thought of 
going in to hei ; then 1 refrained. It was better to let her ease her 
heart so; in the morning she would be more herself, and 1 could 
talk to her. 


THE MASTER OF THE MINE. 


117 


In the morning, however, matters were considerably worse: poor 
Annie was delirious. Her pale face was flushed, her eyes vacant, 
and she cried pitifully on some one to come to her. 

At ten o’clock John Rudd’s wagon stopped at the door; a few 
moments later honest John himself was before me. 1 took him to 
the bedside and showed him my poor cousin, and his eyes filled 
with tears as he looked at her. Then we both went back to the 
other room. 

“ Measter Hugh,” said John, ” what do ’ee mean to daw, sir?” 

” 1 shall wait here till Annie gets better,” 1 said; ” then 1 shall 
persuade her to come home. You will be back again on Thurs- 
day, won’t you?” 

“Yes; and mayhap she’ll be well enough by then to come. 
We’ll make her a bed i’ the awld wagon and take her careful, 
Measter Hugh!” 

Kever in my life had 1 thought so much of the honest- hearted car- 
rier as now, when 1 saw him shedding teais for my poor cousin. 
1 took his hand and grasped it warmly. 

“ God bless you!” 1 said. 

He tuned his head away, and drew the back of his hand across 
his eyes; then he turned again to me. 

“ Measter Hugh,” he said, “I dawnt mind tellin’ you, ’cause 
you ain’t like some as ’ud laugh at me. I’m a big rough fallow, 
and a bit stupid p’r’aps, but I’ve gawt a heart like the rest on us; 
and that dear lass found her way to it, and made me love her, as I 
can never love anybody in my life again. She don’t knaw this any 
more than you did afore this minute. She never thought anything 
o’ me, and 1 didn’t blame her for it; for twarn’t no fault o’ hern; 
but 1 want on lovin’ her all the same. 1 thought. Master Hugh, 
she might ha’ married you; and if she had, and had ha’ been happy 
—why, I should ha’ been contented. But when she went away it 
a’most brawke my heart.” 

“ It was a blow to all of us. God grant bettcjr times are in store.” 

“ Measter Hugh, 1 ain’t told you this to- day for the sake o’ talk- 
ing. 1 want you to unnerstaud that if 1 can help her naw, when 
she wants help, ’tis all 1 ask for.” 

So saying, he opened his purse, took out a few sovereigns, and 
ottered them to me; but 1 shook my head. 

“ 1, don’t want it,” 1 said. “ I have still got some of my own 
left— when that is done, it will be time enough for me to come to 
you. Poor Annie shall be well looked after, be sure of that; and 1 


il8 


THE MASTER OF THE MINE. 


hope that by Thuisiay 1 shall have her well enough to taue her 
home.” 

Looking rather crestfallen, he put the money back into his 
pocket, and turned to go. 

“Very well, Measter Hugh,” said he; “I’ll come again on 
Thursdaf.” 

He bad given me a warm hand-shake, and had got halt- way down 
the stairs, when 1 called him back. 

“ If you are calling at tlie cottage,” Isaid, “ don’t tell them any- 
thing of this. Don’t let them know that Annie is here, or that you 
have seen her. It will be better to keep the secret yet.” 

If he could not induce me to take money, John Rudd determined 
to render assistance in some other way. About half an hour after 
he had left, a doctor arrived to see Annie; then came several bottles 
of wine, and some fruit; and i had strong reason to suspect that the 
landlady had not been quite so averse to accepting his money as 1 
had been. At any rale, she was untiring in her attention to Annie, 
who rapidly recovered. 

When John Rudd came on the Thursday, he found her sitting up 
in bed, able to recognize him and talk to him, but still too weak to 
walk into the adjoining room. Nothing was said about going away 
that day; but 1 judged that she would be able to make the attempt 
on the following Monday, the day of the carrier’s returm. 

On the Sunday morning, therefore, when she had left her bed- 
room, and sat in the arm chair by the sitting-room fire, 1 took 
her poor thin hand in mine, and said, 

“ Annie, my dear, do you feel strong enough to take a j'ourney?” 

For a moment she turned her frightened eyes on mine. 

“ A j*ourney, Hugh?” she asked, faintly. 

1 saw her cheeks grow very white, but 1 knew that what 1 had 
to say must be said; so 1 w^ent bravely on. 

“ John Rudd will be here to-morrow,” 1 said, “ and 1 want to 
take you home.” 

It was pitiful to see her face. “Oh, Hugh! 1 can’t go!” she 
cried. “ 1 can’t face father, it would kill me! You go, and leave 
me— try to forget you have seen me, and they will never know.” 

1 saw it was a hard task 1 had before me, but 1 tackled it as 
bravely as 1 could. 

“ Annie,” 1 said, “ the time has come when you must tell me 
the whole truth. When we met in London, you said you were a 
married woman. "Was that true, or false?” 

She shivered, and turned away her face. 


THE MASTER OF THE MIHE. 


119 


“ Don’t ask me, Hugh! don’t!” 

But 1 persisted, and at last she replied: 

” When 1 told you, 1 thought it was true. He said 1 was his wife. 
We went before a sort of lawyer together in Plymouth, and though 
1 prayed sore to be wed in church, he said it was the same thing. 
Aferward, when we quarreled, he told me that the man was in his 
pay, and that it was no marriage at all. That was why I left him, 
and went out into the streets to starve.” 

“ Now, answer me,” 1 cried, ‘‘ who is the man who deceived 
you? If be is living, he shall make amends!” 

” Too late, too late!” she cried. 

” What!” 1 exclaimed, startled by her tone, and thinking of the 
murdered man. ” Is he dead?” 

‘‘No, Hugh; he is living!” 

“Bis name? Tell me his name!” 

Hugh, dear, I can not— at least not yet. But 1 trusted him, 
and he deceived me. He made me swear to keep his sedVet tor a 
time, saying that it* folk knew of our marriage it would be his ruin. 
At last, when 1 could bear suspense no longer, he told me the truth. 
With the aid of him tnat’s dead, he had deceived me! -our naar- 
riage was all a pretense! Oh, God help me! What shall 1 do? 
What shall 1 do?” 

My head whirled; I had a sore struggle to collect my furious 
thoughts. At last 1 mastered myself, and cried, 

” You must come home with me. You must tell the truth to 
those that love you. If not—” 

She clung to me, looking up into my angry face. 

” Hugh, you won’t ask me! Promise me that!” 

1 did not answer her, 1 could not trust myself to answer. 1 
was thinking of all the evil that had already happened, of the dead 
man, of the hand which, in a moment ot madness, had laid him 
low. 1 was thinking, loo, of Madeline. 

At last 1 turned to my cousin. 

You must leave it all to me,” 1 said. ” Now go and lie down; 
1 will call you early in the morning.” 

It was a wretched night for both of us. 1 walked about the sit- 
ting-room hour after hour, and listened to Annie’s stifled sobs and 
moans from the adjoining chamber. In the morning I called her 
according to promise. She looked deathly pale, but tolerably com- 
posed, and when JoJm Hudd knocked we were both ready to go. 
When we got to the wagon, we found that there was a nice bed 


120 


THE MASTER OF THE MIHB, 


made up for Annie, and near to it was a basket full of things for 
her to eat. 

1 shall never forget that journey; to me it seemed interminable, 
but to poor Annie it ended overquickly, 1 fear. At starting, she 
took her place inside the wagon, upon the bed which John Kudd 
had made up for her, and there she stayed until the end. As we 
drew nearer and nearer to St. Gurlott’s, her agitation increased ter- 
ribly; and when at last John pulled up within a hundred 3 ^ards of 
the cottage-gate, she began to cry pitifully, and beg to be taken 
away. 1 soothed her as well as 1 could, and, having left her in 
the van, X walked on to the cottage to prepare the way for her 
reception. 1 entered the gate, went softly up to the cottage, and 
looked in at the kitchen-window. It was quite dark outside; but 
inside the kilchen lights W'ere burning, and a fire was blazing on 
the hearth. Before the fire, seated in his arm-chair, was my uncle. 
His face looked whiter than ever, his hair was like snow; on his 
knees he held the big family bible, which he was reading, tracing 
the lines with the forefinger of his right hand. 1 looked around 
the kitchen for another figure — that of my aunt. She was not 
there. I hastened back to the wagon, lifted out Annie, more dead 
than alive, poor child; and half -led, half -carried her to the kitchen- 
door. 

“ Go in, Annie,” 1 whispered, ” your father is therel” Then 1 
opened the floor, and, leaving her on the threshold, returned to my 
post of observation at the window to see what took place. 

For a moment, Annie swerved and half-turned, as if about to fly; 
then she laid her hand upon the door and sobbed ” Father!” 

1 saw iriy uncle start nervously and drop the book upon his knee; 
then he rose, and, with a piercing cry of joy, held forth his arms. 

What followed 1 don't know. 1 rushed to the kitchen-door, 
and when I reache fl it i saw poor Annie lying half -fainting upon 
her father’s breast. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

FATHER AND CHILD. 

It was a sight to bring tears to the e 3 ^es of a strong man. The 
poor old father— white haired^ haggard, trembling like a leaf, and 
feveiishly clasping th# child who had been the darling ( f his days. 
He looked into her face — he smoothed back her hair with his 
WTinkled hand— he murmured her name— while, sobbing and moan- 
ing, she clung to him and entreated his forgiveness. 


THE MASTER OF THE MINE. 


121 


i stood looking on, almost terrified. As 1 did so, my aunt brushed 
past me, and, entering the kitchen, uttered a cry of surprise. 

“Annie!” 

The tone of her voice was harsh and cold, and her face was stern 
indeed. 

Keleasing herself from her father’s embrace, my cousin turned 
to her mother with outsti etched arms. 

“Yes, mother! I have come back!” 

But my aunt, with the same stern expression, repulsed her, and 
the poor girl fell back with a pitiful moan. 

“ Mother, mother, dear! won’t you speak to me?” 

“ Bide a bit! Wha biought 'ee? Did you coom back alone?” 

Annie turned her eyes pitifully toward me. 

“ \Ye came home together,” I said, stepping forward. 

“ Let me looh at ’ee!” cried my aunt, suddenly approaching her 
daughter, who hid her face and sobbed. “ What, can’t ’ee look 
your mother in the face? Naw? then away wi’ ’ee, for you’m na 
daughter o’ mine!” 

My uncle, who had sunk trembling into a chair, looked up, 
amazed, as she continued, 

“ Look at y^our father! Look at the shame and trouble you’m 
brought upon him! A year ago he were a happy man, and I were 
a happy woman; but now—\oo\^ at us both now ! Better to be dead 
and buried than to coom back yar, wi’ thy shame upon ’ee, bring- 
ing sorrow and disgrace on folk that once held their heads up wi’ 
the best!” 

1 was lost in amazement at my aunt’s severity; for never for 
a moment had 1 anticipated such a reception. Hitherto, indeed, 
my uncle had seemed to take the aftair most to heart, and it was 
his attitude toward Annie that 1 had most dreaded. But the parts 
of the two seemed reversed — my aunt was the stern man; my uncle, 
the gentle and forgiving woman. 

“ Come, come, aunt,” t said. “You must not talk to Annie 
so. There has been trouble, no doubt; but it is all over now, and ' 
everything can be explained.” 

But my aunt was inflexible. 

“ Whar has she been all this while, tell me that? She left o’ her 
awn free will, and she comes back o’ her awjj^ree will; but till 1 
knaw what she ha’ done. I’ll ne’er sit down or hrcak bread wi’ her 
again.” 

“ 1 told you how it would be!” cried Annie, addressing her 


122 


THE MASTER OF THE MIHE. 


words to me, but still Hiding her face. Let me go! 1 wish 1 had 
never c ornel’' 

And she made a hurried movement toward the door, as if to fly. 

Seeing this, my aunt relented a little; though her manner was 
still harsh enough. 

At this moment, my uncle rose. 

“ Annie,” he said, ‘‘ dawn’t heed mother. She dawn’t mean it, 
my lass — she dawn’t meat it! 'Whate’er you’m done, this is your 
home, and you are our child— our little lass.” Then, turning to 
his wife, he added, ” Speak to her, wdte! speak kindly to her! 
May be she’ll tell ’ee all her trouble.” 

His broken tones, so pleading and pitiful, melted the mother’s 
heart. With a wild cry she sunk into a chair, the tears streaming 
down her face. 

“ Oh! Annie, Annie! may the Lord forgive ’ee for what you ha’ 
done!” 

Suddenly mastering herself, my cousin uncovered her face and 
looked at her mother. Then, drying her tears, and speaking with 
treniulous determination, she said, 

“ 1 know 1 have been wicked. 1 know 1 should never have gone 
away. But if you have suffered, so have 1. 1 never meant to 

bring shame and trouble upon you or father; 1 loved you both too 
well for that. But if you can’t forgive me, if your heart is still 
bitter against me (and God knows 1 don’t blame you, for 1 deserve 
it all), 1 had hettei go away. 1 don’t want to be a trouble or a 
burden. 1 hive made my bed, 1 know, and I must lie upon it; and 
if 1 had not met my cousin Hugh 1 should never have come home.” 

‘‘ Tell me the truth, Annie Pendragon,” said my aunt. ” Wha 
took thee from home? Was it him as is lying, dead and murdered, 
in his grave?” 

Annie opened her eyes in wonder. My uncle started, and then, 
curious to say, averted his face, but stood listening. 

‘‘ What do you mean, mother?” 

‘‘ What daw 1 mean?” echoed my aunt, sharply. “ What should 
1 mean, Annie Pendragon? Folk say you did leave St. Gurlott’s 
wi’ a man. Were that man him that is dead?” 

‘‘ 1 have already asked her that question,” 1 said; ” and she de- 
nies it.” 

1 saw my uncle start again. He was still eagerly listening. 

“No, mother,” said Annie, firmly. 

‘‘ Naw? Ye were seen together i’ Falmouth; all the folk think 
the overseer took ’ee away fro’ home.” 


THE MASTER OF THE MIKE. 


U3 


“ Then it is not true/* 

My uncle turned; his face, which had been troubled before, now 
ghastly beyond measure. 

“ Annie, Annie, my lassi’* he cried. “ D^wnR deny it! Speak 
the truth, and we’ll forgie 'ee! It were Measter Johnson wha 
brought thee to your trouble— say it were, Annie, say it were!” 

His voice was pleading and full of entreaty. 1 alone, of all there, 
guessed why. But Annie shook her head sadly, as she replied, 

“No, father. Him you speak of was nothing to me, and never 
harmed me by word or deed.” 

‘‘John Rudd saw ye together i’ Falmouth,” cried my aunt; 
‘‘ and after that, the overseer were away tor days. Why will ’ee lie 
to her that bore ’ee, Annie Pendragon?” 

‘‘lam not lying, mother. 1 am telling you the Gospel truth. 
Father, she believe me! But you will, won’t you? God 
knows i would not deceive you, after what has passed!” 

But my uncle had turned away, like a man mortally wounded, 
and leaning against the lintel oft he window, was looking wildly out. 

‘‘ Dawn’t speak to me!’ he said, ” Dawn’t, my lass! I can’tbtar 
it!” 

1 thought it time to interfere; so gently taking Annie by the 
hand, 1 led her to my aunt, and made them shake hands and kiss 
each other. Thus some sort of reconcilemenPw^as established, and 
presently the two women, mother and daughter, went upstairs to- 
gether. My hope was that, after that, recriminations would cease, 
and some sort of peace be established in the unhappy house. 

Directly we were alone, my uncle turned and laced me. I saw 
that he was still greatly agitated, and fanced that I guessed the 
cause. 

‘‘ Hugh, my lad,” he said, ‘‘ 1 know ! can trust ’ee. Ever sin 
you was a little lad, you’m been a’most a son to me.” 

With the tears standing in my eyes, 1 wrung his hand. 1 pitied 
him, with my whole heart and soul; for indeed 1 loved him like 
a son. 

‘‘ Hearken then, Hugh, my lad. Did you hear what poor Annie 
said about hersen and the overseer?” 

1 nodded; and he continued, 

‘‘ Be it truth, think ’ee?” 

‘‘ 1 think so— nay, 1 am certain.” 

‘‘ There were nawt between I hem?” 

‘‘ISaught. Annie would never have looked at such a fellow. 
Lord forgive me for speaking so of one that’s dead!” 


124 


THE MASTER OF THE MINE. 


He drew his hand across his brow, where the perspiration stood 
in beaded drops. 

“ 1 think you’m right, lad; 1 dawnl think my Annie would lie. 
But it has allays been 'on my mind, d’ye see, that Johnson ’ticed 
her fro’ her home. God forgie me it 1 ha’ been mista’en! More 
than once, lad, dreaming like, 1 ha’ fancied--! ha’ fancied— that 
overseer hissen confessed wi’ his awn mouth that he were to blame; 
and only last night abed, dreaming like again, 1 thought 1 had my 
fingers at his throat — and tried to lake ’un’s life! 1 might ha’ done 
it, I might ha’ done it, if what I thought were true!” 

As he spoke, he raised his voice to a cry, and a strange mad 
light, such as 1 had never seen there before, began to gather in his 
eyes. 

Terrified at his Words, 1 moved to the liitchen door, and closed 
it quickly. 

‘‘ Hush! For God’s sake, don’t speak so loud! Some one may 
hear jou!” 

He was quiet in a moment. Subdued and gentle, he let me lead 
him to a chair. Then our eyes met, and though we exchanged no 
word, he saw that 1 guessed his secret, and groaning painfully, he 
buried his face in his two hands, and called on God to forgive him 
for his sins. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 

Thus it was that, poor Annie returned to her home and was re- 
ceived once again as a member of the liltle circle at St. Gurlott’s. 
But things were sadly chalfged for her, poor child; and sometimes 
as 1 watched her patient endurance my heart rose in revolt, and 1 
blamed niyselt for having been the means of bringing hei home 
again. 

True, my uncle was glad to see her, and treated her with uni- 
form kindness; indeed, he was never happy unless she was before 
him, and Annie, noting this, was untiring in her devotion to him. 
But with my aunt it was another matter. She, who was usually 
tire kindest of w^omen, now became a domestic tyrant, and practiced 
tow^ard her daughter a species of cruelty w^hich in another person 
she would have been the first to denounce. She never let poor 
Annie rest, but reproached her unceasingly about the troubles she 
had brougut about, the change she had wrought in her poor father, 


THE MASTEll OF THE MliiTE. 


125 


and the happiness of the little home; and she never failed to re- 
mind her that it was not until she had bet n deserted by her un- 
known lover that she had decided to return and administer conso- 
lation to those whose hearts she had broken. 

All this Annie bore without a murnivir. “ It was only her due,’* 
she said; “ her mother was right ; she had destroyed all their hap- 
piness, and she should be made to sutler.” Ke^ertheless, it w'as 
hard for her to bear, and 1 very often saw her with traces of tears 
upon her cheek. 

But when people have poverty before them they can not after d to 
exaggerate sentimental troubles, and 1 soon came to the conclusion 
that the best way to help Annie was to help myself— to obtain a 
stiaution, in fact; and thus, by contributing a weekly allowance, to 
give things a big complexion at home. As all hope of obtaining, 
employment in St. Gurlatt's was out of the question, 1 turned my 
attention to other quarters. After many hearl-rending disappoint- 
ments and endless correspondence, 1 obtained a situation as over- 
seer of a copper mine in Devon. 

The situation was a suitable one in every way, and promised to be 
lucrative. 1 was to leave home and begin operations in a fortnight.' 

1 was in the midst of my preparations, halt happy in the thought 
of being able to inhabit a part of the globe where my misfortunes 
could not find me out, when 1 one day heard a piece of news which 
killed at one blow all my hopes of the future, and made my life 
mere Dead Sea fruit. 

A report spread over the village that George Redruth was. about 
to be married forthwith to Madeline Graham. 

How or ihiough whom the report originated, no one could tell; 
but its truth was admitted on every hand. 

The newff stunned me at first, then it drove me mad; wild, un- 
governable jealousy took possession of me. I could do nothing, 
think of nothing now, save one thing — that the woman 1 loved be- 
yond everything in this world was about to become the wife of an- 
other man, and that man my bitter enemy at heart. 

It was impossible to conceal my secret any longer— they had but 
to look into my face and read it. When Annie heard the news, 
she cried bitterly; and 1, blind as usual, believed she cried out bf 
sympathy for me. 

” It’s a shame, Hugh!” she said, “ after having made you love 
her, that she should wile av^ay another man.” 

“ Don’t say a word against Miss Graham,” 1 returned, “ tor she 
is an angel.” 


12G ^ THE MASTER OF THE MIKE. 

“ Iss, hoM your peace!'’ cried my aunt. “ 'Tis nawt to us, and 
why should you interfere? And, after all, His better as it is. She 
could never have wed wi’ Hugh: and no good comes o' young folk 
dangling after one another when they can never coom together." 

There was sound sense in my aunt’s words, though at the time, 
with the fiercest jealousy and hatred raging in my heart against the 
man who had sypplanted me, 1 could not listen to them. A few 
days’ reflection, however, brought me to a better state of mind- 
showed me that 1 was a tool, and that the news which had wrought 
such an astounding effect upon me was only what 1 might have 
expected, if a wild unwarrantable passion had not made me blind. 
For, after all, what was 1 to Madeline? 

Dining my boyhood, 1 had dared to love her; but when we met 
again, 1 saw distinctly that the episode which had been all in all to 
me had passed completely from her mind. 1 had had the good 
fortune to save her life, and she, angel that she was, had been grate- 
ful; but now the debt had been repaid— in exchange for her life, 
she had helped to save mine. Having paid her debt, she had re- 
moved herself irrevocably from me. 

As 1 thought of all this, 1 felt my heart grow hard, and 1 cursed 
God, who, in his beneficence, hadsentmethisoneray of blessing. But 
why had it come at all? Why had 1 been shown tbe light at all, if 
1 was doomed to'be cast into darkness again for the remainder of 
my life? With Madeline Graham by my side, 1 knew what my 
days might be; without her, 1 knew it wmuld be better tor me to 
be lying at the bottom of tbe sea. 

1 had mused thus walking up from the village one night, and 
now, standing at the cottage gate, 1 looked across the marshes to- 
ward the spot where so many months ago 1 had brought Madeline 
to shore. 

As 1 gazed, my eyes grew dim, and the impulse came upon me 
to revisit once again the spot where my darling had set her foot; so 
1 struck off across the waste toward the lonely shore. 

It was a fine bright moonlight night, clear and still, though the 
shitting clouds in the sky predicted storm. 1 found the sea as calm 
as a mill-pond, fringed with white where the edges lapped the 
stones upon the shore. The moon was shining radiantly upon it; 
also upon the boat-house, w^hich 1 looked at tenderly, remembering 
how 1 had carried Madeline there. Then 1 fell to thinking of herT 
1 felt again as if her head w^ere lying on my shoulder- her cold 
bare arms clinging about iny neck; and 1 felt as though 1 would 
give halt my life for such an experience again. 


THE MASTER OE THE MIHE. 


m 


With a heavily drawn sigh 1 was about to move away, when a 
hand was luid up'.>n iny shoulder, and turning, 1 found myself 
lace to face w:th Madeline herself! 

Yes; there she stood, looking more like a spirit than a thing of 
flesh and blood— her face was so white, her eyes so sad, She was 
wrapped from head to loot in costly furs, while a black hood was 
thrown lightly over her head and tied under her chin. 

At sight of her, all the blood rushed to my U*mples, and 1 felt 
iny body trembling like a leaf; but 1 commanded myself sufiicienlly 
to speak. 

“ Madeline!” 1 said: ” Miss Graham, you here at this hour ?” 

” Yes,” she answered calmly, smiling a little: “it is a strange 
place to find me, is it not? But then you know, Mr. Tielawney, 1 
am a strange creature. 1 may as well confess the truth. 1 fol- 
lowed you here to-night.” 

“ You followed me?” 

” Yes. After our dinner this evening, 1 came out with Anita, in- 
tending to pay you a visit at the cottage. When we came within 
sight of the gate, 1 saw you standing there. 1 paused a moment 
before stepping forward to speak to 30 U, and you moved away, 
striking across the marshes toward the sea. I sent Anita back, 
and followed you here.” 

1 was not altogether glad that she had done so. It was torture 
to be near her, to look at her, and to know that she had come straight 
from the caressing arms of another man. However, 1 commanded 
mytself sufficiently to say, 

” It is not Tight for you to be here, Miss Graham. Will you let 
me take you home?” 

” You shall do so presently,” she answered, not looking at me, 
but keeping her eyes fixed upon the sea. ” Kow 1 want to talk to 
you. Is it true you are going away?” 

‘‘ Yes; it is quite true.” 

” Where are you going?” 

‘‘To the borders of Devon. 1 have obtained a good situation, 
and hope to make a position there which 1 could never have risen 
to here.” 

‘‘ And you will be glad to go,” she continued— “ to leave your 
home?” 

‘‘ Yes,” I replied; ”1 shall be glad to go. As to my home- 
why, 1 have no home now, all is so sorely changed. My uncle is 
so broken, 1 should hardly know him; my poor cousin, with her 
load of sorrow, sits in the house and shrinks from the sight of any 


THE MASTER OE THE MIME. 


128 

human soul. It will he all changed for me elsewhere. Perimps 1 
shall find happiness. God grant it! At any rate, there will never 
be happiness for me here again!’' 

“You talk very bitterly,” continued Madeline. “Then you 
have no wish to stay?” 

*’ Why should 1 wish to stay? A few days ago it would have 
been another matter. It is all changed now—all changed!” 

“ Whafe^do ynu mean, Mr. Trelawney?” 

“1 mean,” I answered, utterly losing my self-control, “that 
thiough all these months of darkness and Irouble, 1 have been sus- 
tained by one thought, one hope. Miss Graham, we are alone to- 
gether to-night; there is no one but you to hear me. 1 may never 
see you again in this world, therefore 1 will say it. 1 love you. 1 
have loved you all my life!” 

She put up her hand and said, hurriedly, “ Mr. Trelawney, please 
say no more!” 

But it was too late, 1 took her hand and kissed it. 

“1 lo’^ed you,” 1 continued, “in those far-ofi: days when we 
w^ere boy and girl together. Then years afterward the sea gave 
you back to my arms, and, God help me! the old passion w^as 
rekindled in my soul with ten times its original fire. Once 1 had 
looked again into your face, my darling, 1 had but one hope, 
one thought. 1 know 1 w^as a madman. 1 knew there was a gulf 
between us broader than the sea from which 1 snatched you, and 
yet, fool that I was, 1 lived in my paradise, and refused to see the 
pittalls which were iQomJng aheau. It was enough to know that 
1 loved you, and that sometimes I was gladdened by a sight of your 
face.” 

1 paused, and dropped her hand; she was crying. 

“ Miss Graham,” 1 cried. “ don’t cry, for Heaven’s sake! You 
have a right to hate me for what 1 have said.” 

She quickly brushed away her tears, and turned to me, smiling 
sadly. 

“ Don't say so, please. 1 honor and respect you more than 1 can 
say— more than I can confess, even to myself. 1 shall pray always 
tor your welfare and happiness, and 1 shall never forget you as 
long as 1 live?” 

“ God bless you!” 1 mrrr mured, kissing her hand again. 

She drew it away hurriedly. 

“ Ah! don’t do that,” she murmured, “ 1 ought rather to kneel 
to you— you, who are so much braver and better than 1,” 


THE MASTER OE THE MIHE. 


129 


She walked away a little, and 1 stood for a moment pondering 
with my eyes upon the sea. 

Suddenly I said, “ Miss Graham, when are you to be married?” 
She started, hesitated for a moment, and then replied, 

'* 1 don’t quite know. 1 anl going up to London shortly. VVe 
are to be married there.” 

Every word she uttered seemed to stab me to the heart. Up to 
this 1 had clung to a wild hope that the reports 1 had heard might 
have had no foundation — now that hape was gone. 

‘‘ Why,” 1 asked desperately, ‘‘are you going to marry. your 
cousin?” 

She started again, and trembled slightly. ” Why do people gen- 
erally marry one another?” she answered. ” Still, there is a very 
grave reason why this should be. My cousin is comparatively 
poor, while 1 am rich; he has grave difficulties befoi'e him which T 
can relieve if I am his wife.” 

” Did he put all this before you?” 

” No; be does not even know that 1 am aware of it. Ah! Mr, 
Trelawney, we have all our troubles, and my poor aunt is breaking 
her heart over hers. Things have been going wrong ever since my 
uncle died.” 

” And you are to be sacrificed to set them right again?” 

” Where does the sacrifice ccme in?” 

** Did she ask you if you loved her son?” 

” No! She asked me it there was any one else whom 1 wished to 
marry, and 1 answered her truthfully: J said there was not.” 

We walked back over ihe marshes, Madeline leaning lightly on 
my arm; but we never spoke a word. Having reached the road, 
we walked on toward Redruth House, and paused at the gate. 

” Good-bye, Miss Graham!” 1 said, holding forth my hand. 

” Good-bye!” she said. 

‘‘ Yes,” 1 returned, ‘‘ 1 think it ought to be good -bye. In a week 
or ten days at most, 1 shall be leaving St. Gurlott’s, and we may 
not meet again!” 

Before 1 knew what she was doing, she hf»d^zed my hand and 
raised it to her lips. 

” Good-bye, dear friend,” she murmured, ” and may God bless 
you!” then with a sob, she turned and was gone. 

I stood petrified, w'atching in a dazed kind of wonder the figure as 
it moved up the moonlit avenue and disappeared auumgst the trees; 
then, with a sigh, 1 turned away. Bitterly as 1 had sudered through 
6 


130 


THE MASTEK OF THE MIHE. 


my love for Madeline, 1 did not for one moment wish that episode 
in my life had never been. 


CHAPTER XXYIL 

I PKEPARE TO LEAVE ST. GURLOTT’S. 

All this time, there had been a double shadow on my life; for 
not only was it darkened by my unfortunate and despairing passion 
but by anxiety tor my uncle. 1 alone, of all who knew and loved 
him, guessed the true cause of the sorrow which made him, 

“ As a tree inclineth weak and bare 
Under its unseen load of wintry air,” 

bend lower and lower with a mysterious burden; so that, although 
not an old man, he had become prematurely infirm. He si ill went 
about his daily work in the mine, but feebly, mechanically, and 
very silently; but in the long evenings he sat brooding by the fire- 
side, starting at the sound of a foot without or a knock at the door, 
but otherwise showing little or no interest in the affairs of life. 

Poor Annie noticed the change, and, secretly reproaching herself 
as the cause, was ever watchful to attend his slightest wish, to 
answer his most careless look. Her moiher’s'sternness pained her, 
after all, infinitely less than the sad endurance of one who had ever 
been the tenderest of fathers. And the change reflected herself in 
lier; so that no one would have recognized, in the pale suffering 
woman, the happy, gentle girl who had once been the light of a 
humble home. 

All this troubled me greatly, and made me naturally anxious to 
leave the scene of so much pain. Had 1 been able in any way to 
heal the wounds that misfortune had made, had 1 even been able 
to speak with a free heart of the trouble which, in on^ shape or an- 
other, was weighing upon us all, it might have been different; but 
1 was utterly helpless. Combined with my great grief, came often- 
times a great dread -lest others should discover what was still an 
unspoken secret between my uncle and myself. So, in my despair 
of being of any service, 1 could not help counting the hours till the 
day came when 1 was to leave St. Gurlott’s and repair to my new 
place in the adjoining county. 

1 was anxious, too, to get away from the district, where the en- 
gagement between Madeline Graham and George Redruth was a 


THE MASTER OF THE MINE. 


131 


matter of common gossip; where 1 was tormented, a dozen times a 
day, by rumors of what was going on up at the great house. After 
our farewell described in the last chapter, when my last hope left 
me and there was nothing for it save to resign myself lo the in- 
evitable, 1 saw nothing more of Madeline; but a day or two later 1 
heard that she had gone, accompanied by Redruth and his mother, 
to London, and I knew, in some distant way, that the journey 
meant further preparations for the marriage. All this made me 
chafe and fret like a man in chains; eager to breathe other air, and 
to put solid earth between himself and his sources of torment. 

1 had lost Madeline forever, that was clear; indeed, 1 had never 
had any hope or chance of gaining her; but the dead, cold certain}}^ 
of my less was unendurable. If 1 was to live on, 1 must exercise 
all the powers of my manhood, and endeavor to foiget what had 
been, at the best, only a foolish dream. So long as 1 remained )n 
the neighborhood, haunted by so many sweet memoiies and troub- 
lous assocations, forgetfulness was- of course impossible. 

The evening before the day hxed for my departure, the gloom in 
the little cottage was greater than ever. All our hearts were full. 
Although 1 was only going away a little distance, and although 1 
bad prromised to revisit my old home whenever an opportunity 
offered, it seemed like parting with the old life forever. Ever since 
1 was a boy, 1 had dwelt there, with those good people, who bad 
stood to me in the place of father and mother; my little world had 
been St. Gurlott’s, my only home that humble cottage; and 1 should 
have been made of hard stuff indeed, if 1 had failed to feel the part- 
ing. 

We sat together round the fire. 1 tried to assume a cheerful tone, 
and talked hopefully of the future; but it was no use. Eager as 1 
was to get away, 1 was no voluntary exile. TV here 1 had lived so 
long, I would have chosen to have lived and died. 

31y aunt, who was busily knitting some stockings to form part 
of my wardrobe, listened to my bold talk, and dolefully shook her 
head. 

“ 'Tis well to ha’ a light heart,” she said, ” and ’tis easy when 
one is young. But they tell me Gweudovey be a lawnsome place.” 

” Not a bit of it,” 1, answered, laughing. “Not half so lonesome 
as 'St. Gurlott’s.” 

‘‘ And it be so far— ’tis bad as going across the sae.” 

At this 1 laughed again. 

” Why, ’tis only seventy miles away as the crow flies? A man 
might gallop it on a good horse in a few short hoars. Then, as to 


132 


THE MASTEE OF THE MINE. 


the mine itself! It’s different to being underground, and. what’s 
worse, under salt water. It’s open to the sky, and cheerful as sun* 
shine— isn’t it, uncle?” 

My uncle who occupied his usual place by the ingle, looked 
lound vacantly, and nodded. 

” Iss, lad, that be true.” 

“ Sunshine, did ’ee say?” said my aunt. ‘‘ There’ll be naw sun- 
shine for me or fattier, w^hen our lad be gone. 1 dawn’t knaw what 
father will do with hissen, when you’m gone. You ha’ been his 
right hand ever sin you was but a child; and now he be breaking 
like, he’ll miss thee more and more. But 1 duwn’t blame ’ee, lad! 
Yf>u’m right to seek your fortin’; and this be a poor place, Lord 
knows, for a bold lad like you!’' 

” Hugh will come back, mother,” cried Annie, whostood behind 
hei father’s chair. ” He is only going for awhile.” 

‘‘Of course,” 1 exclaimed. ,‘‘Or, better still, I shall make my 
fortune, as you say, and you will come over and live with me.” 

‘‘loo late tor that,” returned my aunt. ‘‘ We be awld folk 
naw, and our time be nigh come, When he comes back, ’twill 
likely be to our buiyin’.” 

“ Nonsense, aunt!” 

‘‘ 1 could ha’ died content, Hugh, if 1 had seen ’ee a happy man, 
Ivi’ childer at your knee.” she said, glancing at Annie, and remem- 
bering the old plans — which had fallen long before, like a house of 
cards. 

‘‘ 1 shall never marry,” 1 replied, darkening, in spite of myself. 

There was a long silence. My aunt’s words had struck a pain- 
ful chord, and we were all more or less uneasy. To break the spell 
of gloomy thought, 1 rose and gazed from the window. It was a 
fine night, with a full moon. 

*‘ We shall have fine weather,” 1 said. ‘‘ The wind has gone up 
into the north.” 

As 1 spoke, the kitchen door opened, and John Rudd entered, 
hat in hand. He greeted us all round, and, at my aunt’s request, 
took a seat by the fire. After smiling silently tor some minutes, he 
felt in his pockets, and produced some of his usual presents, brought 
that day from Falmouth. 

‘‘ Gawin' away to-moirow, Measter Hugh?” he asked, presently. 

‘‘ Yes, John. 1 start attei breakfast.” 

‘‘Dear, dear! A-harseback. Measter Hugh?” 

” No; 1 am going to tramp it right across the moor. 1 shall take 


THE MASTEH OF THE MINE. 133 

it e:i5?y, you know; divide the journey into two days, and sleep 
one night on the way.” 

** It be a middlin’ long walk, measter Folk tell me there be 
snaw out on the moor. I wish ’ee were going my way; I’d gie 
ihee a lift, and welcome” 

‘‘Thank you, John,” I said. 

‘‘ Lawd, it do seem but yesterday sin you first rode, a little lad, 
in my awld cart. Do you remember, Measter Hugh, how 1 ma(ie a 
pome about missis and Annie here, and how you put ’un down in 
writing as fine as print?” 

” Of course 1 do,” 1 replied. ” You don’t write so much poetry 
now, John?” 

John Kudd’s face fell. He scratched his head somewhat lugu- 
briously. 

‘‘My gift be failing me, I fear,” he murmured; “but thar, 
pomes be for young folk, not for old chaps like John Rudd. How- 
sornever, it do come out o’ me now and then, like sparks fra’ a 
forge; but there be much on’t 1 can’t repeat, and much 1 disremem- 
ber. ’Twere a relief to my feelin’s like, Measter Hugh, when 1 had 
you handy to put ’un down!” 

He added, spreading his great hands on his knees, and sinking 
his voice to a whisper : 

‘‘ Did 1 ever tell ’ee the pooty pomelmade about your sen, when 
they took ’ee for killing the overseer?” 

1 saw my uncle start and change color, while the pipe that he had 
lit and was smoking almost dropped from his mouth. 

” Kever mind that now, John,” 1 cried, quickly. ‘‘Talk of 
something else— something more pleasant.” 

” All right, Measter Hugh,” returned the poet. ‘‘ Shall 1 tell ’ee 
the news?” 

1 nodded: and he continued, 

” Young master be coming home fro’ Lunnun to-morrow wi’ 
her he is to wed.” 

‘‘ How do you know that?” 1 cried, flushing to the temples, and 
conscious that all eyes were turned suddenly upon my face. 

*‘ 1 brought a big bawx to leave up at the house, Measter Hugh, 
and ’twere addressed to the young missus; and when 1 were up in 
the kitchen, and taking a glass o’ ale wi’ cook, they told me post- 
man had brought a letter this arternoon, and that young measter 
were coming home, ^‘^e?” 

He little knew the torture he was causing me; but every word he 
uttered went through me like a knife. Again 1 made a device to 


134 


THE MASTER OF THE MINE. 


change the subject, and succeeded; but while the good fellow prat- 
tled on, my mind was full of the news that he had brought. 

My original determination had been to leave home at ten or eleven 
in the forenoon, and, striking across the moorland, to do a leisure- 
ly forty miles before resting tor the night; but I was now resolved 
to depart much eailiei— indeed, at daybreak. 1 dreaded the torture 
of seeing my darling again; andl knew it to be extremely probable 
that she might arrive from Falmouth very early in the day. 

After a parting glass of spirits, in which he pledged me heartily, 
and wished me all the good luck in the world, John rose to go 
away. 1 walked with him to the door, and across the garden to 
the gate. 

Here we shook hands heartily. 

“ Keep an eye on the old man when 1 am gone,'' 1 said. “ Gwen- 
dovey is not far away, but far enough if anything goes wrong. My 
uncle may want a friend. If anything happens, don’t fail to send 
to me at once." 

" I’ll do that, Measter Hugh," replied John Rudd. “ 1 be 
downright grieved to see the old mun saw broken down." 

After another hearty hand -shake he walked away in the moon- 
light. 1 was turning to go in, when 1 felt a touch upon my arm. 
It was Annie, who had crept out after me, and now spoke in a low 
voice, almost a wliisper: 

" Hugh, dear Hugh, this is the last night we shall be together for 
many a long dap. I wanted to speak to you before you go. 1 
wanted to be quite sure that we are friends, in spite of all that has 
passed." 

Her voice w^as broken with tears. Full of tenderness and pity 
for her, 1 put my arm around her, and kissed her on the forehead. 

"More than friends, Annie,’’ 1 said. "Brother and sister — as 
much as if we were so by blood." 

" Oh, you are good, good!" she cried, resting her head on my 
shoulder. "Don’t think 1 am ungrateful! Don’t think I fail to 
see how kind you have been; how all your thought has been for 
othtrs — never for yoursplf. But, Hugh, dear, you won’t be angry 
if I speak of it!— it’s on my mind, and I should like to say it to 
you before you go." 

" What is it, Annie?" 

" It’s about Miss Graham! Ah, don't be angry! 1 wouldn’t pain 
you for the world!" 

" Do not speak of her!" I said, trembling. 


THE MASTElt OF THE MIHE. 


135 


“ But you lovelier, Hugh, you love her— -ah, do you think 1 have 
not seen?’’ 

“Yes, Annie, 1 love her. What then? 1 learned long ago that 
my love was hopeless and foolish. She is far away from me as that 
star! 1 ought to have known it from the beginning.” 

She raised her eyes to my face, and looked at me earnestly and 
long. T'hen she said : 

“ Sometimes, Hugh, 1 have thought that you are wrong, for you 
are worthy of any lady in the land. Sometimes 1 have thouglit 
that, it you had only spoken, she would have listened to you. Why 
do you give her up? Perhaps there is lime yet?” 

“ In a few days, Annie, she will be married to Mr. Redruth. 

“ Never, never,” cried my cousin, with strange vehemence. 

“ W'hy, it is all arranged. They are engaged. Even if it were 
otherwise, where would be my change? Great ladies do not marry 
beggars, little woman?” 

“It is of that 1 wished to speak,” persisted Annie. “ 1 do not 
think those two will ever be man and wife.” 

“ Why do you say that? Have you any reason?” 

“ Yes, Hugh. Do not ask me to say more now; but promise — 
promise me that you will not quite despair. For you care for her 
very much, do you not? and 1—1 know what you must feel, with 
such a love as yours.” 

As she spoke, the old suspicion came upon me. 1 bent down and 
gazed into her face, Jit by the brilliant moonlight. Never had she 
looked so pretty. 

“ Annie,” 1 said, “ before I go, have you nothing more to say to 
me?” 

“No. dear Hugh.” 

“ 1 mean— about yourself.” 

flow she trembled! 1 could feel the sudden leaping of her heart, 
as 1 proceeded: 

“ 1 have had my own thoughts all along, but 1 have kept them 
to myself. You know what 1 said to you long ago about George 
Redruth? VYas 1 right or wrong?” 

“ Do not ask me now,” she sobbed. “ Some day, soon too, you 
shall know everything — but not no tv! not to-night!” 

1 saw her agony, and forbore to question her further. But we 
did not go in at once. Lingering at the gate, we talked of old limes, 
of her father, of many things near to our hearts, but no more of the 
one thing that was nearest to mine. All my anger against her, all 
my indignation at the trouble she had wrought, died away in tender 


136 


THE MASTER OF THE MIME. 


brotherly sympathy and affection. She was my little cousin again, 
my confidante and trieud. The peace of the still night fell upon us, 
touching our spirits with a beautiful consecration. Never shall 1 
forget that gentle time ot parting. 

“ Wlmtever happens,’' 1 said, as we turned to go in, “remem- 
ber that 1 am your loving brother.” 

“ Dear, dear Hugh!” she answered. “ J have not loved you half 
enough. Ah, if 1 had trusted you at the first! But may be it is 
not too late, even now. God help me, 1 will try to make amends!” 


CHAPTEK XXVin. 

THE CHAMPION OP GWENDOVEY. 

Soon after daybreak the next morning 1 took the road. All 1 
carried was my staff and a small knapsack on my back; ni}^ other 
worldly possessions had gone on days before, by carrier. My aunt 
and Annie watched me from the door; my uncle walked with me 
through the village, and a short distance up the highway. He was 
in his working clothes, ready for his day’s work in the mine. 

Scarcely a word was spoken between us till I reached the point 
whence 1 meant to strike off across the open moor. Here 1 paused, 
and held out my hand; he gripped it in both of his, and looked 
into my face. He was never one of the crying sort, but I saw now 
that his eyes were dim. 

“ Hugh, my lad, 1 know you’m nawt going far away, but sum* 
mat tells me as it may be a lang while afore we meet again. 1 ha’ 
ever loved ’ee like my awn son. It aught happens to me, you’ll 
be a son to the awld woman still?” 

“Ay, that 1 will!” 

“ And Annie, poor lass— -you’ll be a brother to poor Annie?” 

“Be sure of that,” 1 answered. “But keep up a good heart. 
We shall all be together soon.” 

He gazed at me sorrowfully, with eyes in which there was no 
earthly hope. 

“ May be, lad, may be, but lookee. 1 be an awld man naw, and 
a’most done wi’ life. There be summit here i’ my heart, gnawing 
like, and 1 feet like that chap i' the Bible as were ate up by worms. 
But 1 mun wail and bear, wait and bear, only promise me again, 
lad, to look arter the awld woman and our little lass,” 

I promised with all my heart. He still gripped my hand, and 


THE MASTER OF THE MIKE. 


137 


seemed about to say more, but with a moan, he blessed me and 
turned away. Greatly moved and troubled, 1 left him. and walked 
away across the open moor. 

The day was bright and still; one of those calm days early in the 
year, when the chill of winter is still about the dark bones of the 
earth, but when there are quickening motions in the air, and mes- 
meric admonitions of a vernal lesurrection. The dew sparkled upon 
the heath, and strung its silver threads upon the bare branches of 
gorse and broom. A lark was rising from the ground and singing 
heavenward, as if it were spring indeed. 

Following a thin sheep-track, I was soon out upon the wild moor. 
Turning at last, 1 saw St. Gui loti’s reddening in the sun-rays, 
while away beyond glimmered the sparkling expanse of the sea. 
My heart swelled within me, with love for the dear old place. I 
might have been a pilgrim to the Antip()des, instead of a man mere- 
ly journeying to the next county. But in this world of ours, dis- 
tance is measured by sympathy, not by mileage; and never having 
been much of a wanderer, 1 was inexperienced enough to undergo 
the pangs of exile— though the place of my banishment was to be 
only the adjoining parish. 

With a sigh of farewell to St. Gurlott’s, 1 turned and faced the 
track again. Around me on every side the moor stretcheu like a 
sea, flat for the most part, but here and there rising tc rocky knolls, 
or descending into green hollows, where the sward was damp and 
spongy under foot. From time to time I passed a lonely moors- 
man, cutting turf or gathering furze for fuel, with whom 1 would 
excnange greetings and stand lalking a few minutes before wander- 
ing on. But for the most part the place was solitary, haunted only 
by stray sheep and wild cattle. Hawks and ravens were numerous, 
for it was their happy hunting-ground. Trouble had made me a 
little superstitious, and 1 eyed these birds, especially the black 
croaking fellows and their kindred vagabonds the hooded crows, 
with little favor. 

As 1 went on, the prospect grew wilder. Tall blocks and tons of 
gianite were scattered everywhere, like the fragments of some sub- 
merged world; and, indeed, 1 knew well that the ground whereon 1 
walked had once been the bottom of the sea, and that the mighty 
stones had been washed by mightier waves, and deposited there long 
ere the coming of man. Mile after mile, far as eye could behold, 
stretched the stony blocks— some tall and huge, monoliths, penciled 
over by green moss and gray lichens; some flat and recumbent, like 
mighty lomDstoPes— as indeed they were. V'erily, it was Tadmor 


138 


THE MASTER OE THE MIKE. 


of the wilderness; broken up confusedly, as if an eaithquake had 
just passed. 

But though the scene was wild and bleak below, the sky was 
calm above it, calm and flecked with delicate filmy clouds that 
stretched gently over the brilliant blue of the far-off ether. Had 
my heart been Jess sad, I should have exulted in the beauty and 
wonder ot the scene. Even as it was, 1 drank in the keen moorland 
air with a quickening sense of life. Gradually, the dark shadows 
flitted from my brain, and the strength ot my manhood returning 
upon me, 1 passed on rapidly across the waste. 

More than once in my passage, 1 struck the road again, and found 
myself among moorland villages and pasturages, with intervals of 
leafless woods. At mid-day 1 halted at a farm-house, situated many 
miles from human habitation and surrounded by pastures watered 
by a wild moorland stream. As 1 approached the door, a troop 
of wild shepherd-dogs surrounded me, so savage that ] had to 
beat them off with my staff; but the simple folk welcomed me 
with true pastoral hospitality, and regaled me royally with scones 
and milk. The coming ot a stranger was an event in their 
lonely lives, and they had a hundred questions to ask concerning 
myself, my destination, and the unknown region whither 1 was 
bound. 

The sun was setting when 1 sighted Torborne, the inland village 
where 1 had arranged to sleep, w^hich was close on fifty miles from 
my old home by the sea. It was a mining settlement, and as I ap- 
proached 1 found myself abreast of a rough tram-road communicat- 
ing with the mines. A busy sound of clattering and clanking, 
clashing and rushing, broke upon my ear; great wheels suddenly 
appeared, revolving in the air above my head, together with a lofty 
chimney, skeleton platforms, and iron chains clanking over iron 
pulleys. Flocks of women and children soon appeared, busy on 
the surface. Close by them ran a brawling stream, copper-colored 
by the refuse of the mine. 

They greeted me merrily, as 1 paused to look at them. 1 noticed 
that they spoke a dialect somewhat diflerent from that ot the dis- 
trict where 1 had lived so long. 

1 slept at Torborne, and at daybreak next morning proceeded on 
my way. Soon after midday, 1 reached my destination, another 
mining settlement on the very borders of two counties, Cornwall 
and Devon. I found it to be, as rumor had informed me, a “ lone- 
some '' place, situated on the banks of a snrall river, and surrounded 
on every side by the wild blocks and tors of the moor; The mines 


THE MASTER OF THE MIHE< 


139 


on which 1 had been engaged belonged to Lord , who had a 

residential casile close by, and whose representative, a solicitor, 
resided in the village. 1 reported mysell in due course, and was 
forthwith installed in my position. 

Before the day was out, i quite understood the motives which led 
to the engagement of a man with a rift in his character. The 
miners were a wild, godless lot, and the last overseer, an elderly 
man, had more than once gone in danger of his life. As a person 
still suspected of violent proclivities, 1 had been chosen to take his 
place. The truth was, the place bore the worst of names, and few 
men would have accepted the situation, at any price. 

The agent, during our fiist interview, hinted that the miners 
needed an iron hand to rule them; and 1 was rather glad than other- 
wise of the information, for 1 wanted worie, the more desperate the 
better. That very afternoon I inspected the place, and found my- 
self inspected in turn by as villainous a set of faces as 1 had ever 
encountered. There was much muttering and murmuring, for the 
fellows wanted to be under the direction of one of their own num- 
ber, one Michael Looe, a red-haired giant, who had this one advan- 
tage over his comrades— that he could read and wTite. 

The very next day, the first after my installation, 1 found out the 
sort of opposition with which 1 had to reckon. As 1 stood by the 
open mine, giving some directions, that same Looe ran up against 
me, with a pickax on his shoulder, and almost capsized hie. A 
hoarse laugh greeted this performance. 

“ Can’t 'ee look where you’m gaun, measter?” cried the fellow, 
grinning savagely, to the huge delight of the throng — men, women^ 
and children. 

1 looked him steadily in the face, as one looks in the eye of a 
furious bull. What 1 saw there did not daunt me. The fellow 
was a bully, and 1 had dealt with bullies before. If 1 was to retain 
any authority in the place, 1 must bring him to his senses. 

“ What’s your name?” 1 said, quietly. 

“ My name?” he repeated, leering round at the others. “ Mike 
Looe, if you maun knaw. As good a name as yourn, I’ll wager.” 

Another laugh greeted this touch of primitive humor. 

“My name is Hugh Trelawney; and, as 1 am master here. I’ll 
trouble you to remember it. If you don’t, my man, I’ll find a way 
to impress it on your menrory.” 

“ You will, will ’ee?’" said the giant. “ And so you be measter? 
Mates,” he added, looking round, “ d’ye hear ’un? Take ofli 


140 


THE MASTER OF THE MIHE. 


your hats lo ^un! This fine gentry pup be measter V the mine. 
Take ofi your hats to ’un, 1 say!'* 

And suiting the action to the word, he bowed mockingly before 
me. My blood was now up, and 1 faced him resolutely. “ Go 
back to your work,’* 1 said. “ Ko more words. Do ms 1 bid you.” 

His manner changed from mockery to savage determination. 

” WhoTl make me?” he said, brandishing his pickaxe. 

Before he knew what 1 was about, 1 wrenched the weapon from 
- his hand, and flung it on the ground. He clinched his fist and 
made a rush at me. 1 waited for him, and landed him a blow 
which made him stagger back, dazed. The men flocked round us, 
murmur’ng and threaUning. 

But Michael Looe had confidence in his own prowess. He 
Weighed fifteen stone, and had the fists of Anak; so that 1, though 
a tall strong man, looked no match for such a giant. He uttered a 
fierce oath, and bade the men stand back. 

“Fair play, lads!” he cried, grinning again. “Lea’ the new 
chap to me. Don’t Te see he means fightin’?” 

With that the men made a ring, while their champion stripped 
off his waistcoat and began quietly turning up his sleeves, showing 
an arm with muscles like iron bands. For a moment 1 shrunk hack, 
not that 1 feared the ruffian, but because 1 felt ashamed to take part 
in such a brawl. 

The men saw my hesitation, and uttered a derisive cry. 

“ Look at ’un! He be afeer’d! Hit 'un in the ’eel” 

At this juncture, an old man, one of their number, but superior 
in manner to the rest, whispered in my ear, 

“ You’d best bolt, measter. He’ll smash ’ee like an egg, as he did 
chap afore ’ee!” 

My answer was decisive. Off went my coat, down went my hat 
on (he ground, and, clinching my fists, 1 faced the giant. This 
rather turned the tide of feeling in my favor; at any rate, it elicited 
a feebl(‘ cheer. The men prepared themselves for enjoyment; a real 
stand- up “ fight ” was imminent. 

Were 1 acquainted with the beautiful vocabulary of the ring, 1 
might compose a prose poem on this episode; but alas! I am as 
one uninstructed, and, after all, it is too absurd. Annoying as the 
affair was at the time, 1 laugh at it now. 

Mike Looe came at me like Goliath, but at the first encounter 1 
discovered that he had no science. 1 myself bad a little, and 
though far his inferior in weight, possessed museb s and sinews of 
steel, due to my healthy life and constant exercise, from boyhood 


THE MASTER OF THE MIME, 


141 


upward, in the open air. The result is easily predicted. In mat- 
ters of fistiana, science, combined with pluck, is everything. Be- 
fore many minutes had passed. Michael Looe had received as sound 
a thrashing as man could desire. He lay on the ground, his head 
supported on the knee ot one of his comrades, and looking stupid- 
ly up into my face. 

1 turned to the men, with as much good humor as 1 could assume 
under the ornaments of a black eye and a bleeding forehead, 
whereon my opponent’s fist had descended with the force of a steam 
ram. 

“M^ell, my lads,” 1 cried, “you see IVe paid my footing. If 
any of you think 1 haven’t paid enough, let him stand up, and I’ll 
give him a little UiOre.” 

This speech, quite in the humorous manner of my late oppom nt, 
completed my victory. It was greeted with an uproarious laugh 
and a cheer. To my astonishment, the men crowded round me, 
and began shaking hands. Then Mike Looe, rising slowly, ap- 
proached me, and held out his enormous fist. 

“ Shake hands, measter,” he said. “ it you can lick me, you can 
lick any two o’ ’un. Eh, Lord, but you knaws how to feet, don't 
’un, mates? Gi’e me yur hand. You may sack me to-neet and 
willing, birt I’ll go bail you’m the right sort to be measter here!” 

So we shook hands, and from that moment my physical suprem- 
acy was undisputed. Instead ot dismissing my late opponent, as 
he anticipated, 1 kept him in his place, and he afterward became 
my right-hand man. I had made a very good beginning. After 
that day, 1 had very little trouble in retaining my due authority as 
overseer of the Gwendovey Mine. 


CHAPTEK XXIX. 

A NEW SURPRISE. 

My life at Gwendovey was quiet and uneventful enough. 1 
found a decent lodging in the house ot one'Mark Drew— the elderly 
man who had advised me, in a friendly way, to run for it, just 
when 1 was about to tackle the champion of the mine. It was a 
white-washed cottage on the skirts of the moor, and sufficiently 
removed from the noise and bustle of the mine itself. 1 had a bed- 
room and a small parlor, so that when I had got around me my 
small stock of worldly goods, including a few books, I was tolera- 


143 


THE MASTER OF THE MINE. 


bly comfortable, and as contented— well, as contented as one crossed 
in love can be. 

A fortnight passed away. Short as was the time, it seemed an 
afire to me, hungering as 1 was for some news from home. 1 had 
received one letter, written by Annie, in which she told me that no 
change had taken place since my departure, but made no mention 
whatever of Madeline Graham or George Redruth. I’p this 1 had 
replied in as cheerful a strain as possible, but shamefacedly keep- 
ing silence on the subject nearerst to my heart. 1 was full, there- 
fore, of secret anxiety. 

As for the chance of any stray rumor reaching me concerning 
changes at St. Gurlott’s, it was fully as remote as it 1 had been a 
dweller on the other side of the earth. The village where 1 dwelt 
resembled an island surrounded by an unnavigable sea; and the 
people in it knew as much or more of Kamtchatka as they knew 
of St. Gurlott’s. From generation to generation, they dwelt apart: 
troglodytes of the mine, they knew of nothing beyond it. Yeiy 
few among them had ever beheld the sea, though its nearest point 
of coast was under forty miles distant. 

The place contained a church and a school house, the former a 
sort of chapel of ease of the Rev. William Stephenson, known as 
“Billy” Stephenson, the famous “hunting parson;” the latter 
superintended by a school-mistress about one degree removed above 
the ignorance of the children she taught, or was supposed to teach. 

“ Billy ” Stephenson or his deputy preached a sermon every Sun- 
day, fifenerally a short one, and conventional in its news of both this 
world and another; but the rev’erend gentleman was most welcomed 
when he rode om on week-day business, marrying, burying, or 
visiting the sick, and when his conversation was secular, not to say 
horsy, in character. Ever top-booted, spurred, and ready tor a 
gallop after the fox or the wild red-deer, and ever ready to exchange 
a coarse joke or repartee witli the meanest of his parishioners, he 
was highly popular, through it is needless to say that he did little 
or nothing, shining light though he was, to scatter the mental dark- 
ness of his savage flock. 

One Sunday, the second after my arriral, as I was preparing to 
go and hear this worthy preach (having just seen him pass by at a 
trot, riding in the direction of the old church) 1 was astonished to 
see a light country cart draw up at the door, containing John Rudd 
and my cousin Annie. Startled, and tearing some bad news, 1 
stepped out to greet them, and learned that they had driven over 


THE MASTER OE THE MINE. 


143 


from Barmouth, a town some twenty miles distant, where they had 
arrived in the carrier’s wagon on the previous night. 

1 assisted Annie down, and saw that she was very pale and trem- 
bled. Then while John Rudd drove, away to the beer-house, where 
he was to put up the horse, I led my cousin into the cottage. 

Directly we were alone, she burst into tears. 

“Something has happened,” 1 cried. “Speak. Annie! don't 
keep me in suspense! Is anything wrong at home?” 

My fear was that some evil had befallen my poor uncle, but 1 
was immediately reassured. 

“ All’s well at home, Hugh dear; it s not that which brought me 
over. 1 came to tell you that the marriage day is fixed. They are 
to be wedded in St. Gurlott’s next Wednesday morning. ” 

I knew of whom she spoke, though she mentioned no names, and 
1 was both surprised and angry that she should travel to me with so 
sorry a message. She saw the darkness gathering in my face, and 
cried eagerly: 

“ Hugh, dear, don’t be angry! I felt I must come and tell you 
— for oh! it is breaking my heart, as well as yours.’' 

1 looked at her in amazement. 

“ Breaking your heart?” 1 echoed. “ What is it to you?” 

“ It is everything to me. Master George, though he is going to 
wed Miss Graham, is my husband in the sight of God!” 

“ Then 1 was right!” 1 cried. “ 1 was right from the first. Ihe 
villain! He led you from your home!” 

Slie bent lier head in weeping acquiescence- All my spirit arose 
once more against her, tor though 1 had suspected the truth, her 
confession came upon me like a thunder-bolt. 1 looked at her in 
horror as, stretching out her hands pitifully to me, she proceeded, 

“ Hugh, dear, 1 promised that 1 would one day tell 3 'ou every- 
thing, and it is for that I came. 1 waited on till the last, 1 thought 
to hold my peace, 1 hoped and prayed that he would nevei go so 
far; but when 1 heard the day was fixed, my mind w'as made up— 
to hold my peace no more. But first 1 went to him, and prayed to 
him on my knees. Then, finding that it was all in vain, 1 deter- 
mined to come herey 

“ You are speaking of George Redruth?” I asked, sternly. 

“ Yes— of the young master.” 

“ You left home in his company? You were together in Lon- 
don?” 

“God help me— yes!” 

“ Why have you screened him so long?” 


144 


THE MASTER OF THE MINE. 


“ Because 1 made him a promise. Because I believed until the 
very last that he might make amends. Because — because — 1 did 
not wish to see him harmed! Oh, Hugh, forgive me! don’t look 
at me like that! You promised to be a brother to me always. Keep 
your promise now.’' 

How could 1 resist her sad appeal? 1 was a churl to repulse hei, 
even for a moment. But, castinij ofi: the mask of severity, 1 kissed 
her, and placed her in a chair. As she looked up at me with her 
pleading tearful eyes, I silently cursed the scoundrel who had been 
the cause ot her trouble; but for her, poor girl, 1 had only sym- 
pathy and love. Then a thought crossed my mind, and 1 asked 
eagerly, 

“Have you spoken ot this to anyone else? Does my uncle 
know?” 

She snook her head. 

” No one knows but yourself,” she replied. ” How could 1 
speak of it to any one but you?” 

” So much the better,” 1 returned. ” Evil enough has come of 
all this already, and, 1 would not for the world that it should 
reach the old man’s ears. He believes George Redruth blameless. 
God knows what he might do, if he knew him to be as guilty as 
you say.” 

Full of the new thoughts her confession had awakened, I walked 
up and down the room; after a little while 1 bent over her again, 
and took her hand. 

‘‘ Annie, 1 must know everything; not part of the truth, but the 
whole; then, perhaps, 1 can help you. But first, about this mar- 
riage? lou say it is now a certain thing?” 

” Yes, Hugh. That is why 1 came.” 

” You did well,” 1 answered. ‘‘ Now, tell me the whole story.” 

She obeyed me, and 1 listened in deep agitation. Simply, clear- 
ly, she described to me all that had taken place, from the day she 
had first left her home. 


CHAPTER XXX. 
anwie’s story. 

It was a long and painful story, delivered not consecutively, but 
brokenly, in a series of vivid episodes; and so agitated was 1 by 
wliut 1 heard, that it was some time before 1 was able to piece it all 
together. At last, howt ver, the whole truth was made clear to me; 
and 1 shall now do my best, in form, to make it clear to the reader. 


THE MASTER OF THE MIKE. 


145 


For a long time Annie had resisted George Redruth's solicitation 
that she should leave her home. Her whole nature revolted against 
the pain winch such a step might cause; besides, he had persistent- 
ly aveired that it was his intention to make her bis wife, and 
Annie, brought up as she had been with a simple faith in human 
nature, saw no reason, since all was straight and honorable, for so 
much secrecy in the matter. 

“ It would break my father's heart,*’ she said to him, cigain and 
again. “ It will bring dishonor upon my home and upon myself, 
\Yhy should we act so?” 

But George Redruth was specious in his pleading. He pointed 
out to her that since they were to be married, there would be no 
dishonor. That if her good name was tarnished foi a lime through 
the enforced secrecy of the whole proceedings it would shine all 
the brighter afterward, and as for himself — why, he vrould love 
her a hundred-fold for this slight sacrifice; in fact, he look full ad- 
vantage of his gentlemanly manners and superior education to lure 
her on to destruction. “ 1 am sure he- re.illy and truly loved me 
then,” said poor Annie, as she recounted those scenes to me, ‘‘ Ah, 
Hugh, there was love in his voice and in his eyes, real true love 
that no one could doubt; and was it any wonder then that 1 never 
doubled it: when he took me in his arms and kissed me 1 felt that 
1 could go to sleep and never wish to waken again.” 

Isevertheless, poor Annie brought all the strength of her nature 
to her aid, and resisted him almost to the last. 

Even after she had finally been brought to consent to his proposi- 
tion, she repented before many hours had passed away, and went to 
him again with a determination to break with him once and for all. 
It was the night preceding that on which she left her home. They 
had arranged not to meet again, but Annie, reckless of conse- 
quences, had sent a note to him, asking him to meet her. She got 
no answer to the note, but at ten o’clock, the time she had named, 
she went to their usual place of meeting, and here she was soon 
joined by George Redruth. He looked impatient, and even angr3\ 
Instead of taking her in his arms and kissing her as usual, he began 
to chide her for her thoughtlessness in sending up the note. 

” If my mother had seen it, ’ he said, “ and questioned me about 
it, it would have been awkward. What do you want, Annie? 1 
thought everything was settled last night.” 

” And so it was,” returned Annie, beginning to tremble at her 
own boldness. ‘‘ But 1 wanted to see you to-night to say that I 
have changed my mind.” 


146 


THE MASTER OF THE MINE. 


“ Changed your mind; what the deuce do you mean?’^ 

“ Just this, sir,'' continued Annie, who grew boldei as she went 
on. “ 1 am sure that what we are going to do is not right, and can 
never biing happiness to any soul; let us just wait as we are, and 
be as we are till you can marry me openly, and lake me to your 
home.” 

“ You are a little fool,” returned Redruth, impatiently; “ but you 
will find I am not to be befooled. It you wish to break with me, 
say so, and we will not see each other after to night.” 

It would have been well for poor A.nnie if she could have taken 
him at his word; but, alas! it was too late. He had made her love 
him so passionately, that sooner than lose him altogether, she felt she 
would make any sacrifice on earth. 

Therefore she clung helplessly to him, sobbing bitterly. 

‘‘ Ho, do not go from me— I can not bear to lose j^ou!” 

He saw he had gained his point, and grew soft again. He laid 
fier head on his shoulder, stroked her tear-stained cheek, and kissed 
her. 

‘‘Oh, Annie, Annie,” he said, “you are a silly little thing 
When you talk as you did just now, you make me think that you 
don’t care for me at all, and that your only reason in wishing to 
marry me is the temptation to fill the position 1 offer you as my 
wife. My dear, if 1 did not love you so devotedly 1 should doubt 
your love. They say to love is to have implicit faith; you have no 
faith in me!” 

” Oh, yes, 1 have!” 

‘‘Then why not show it? Come, tell me that! Why hesitate 
and cry as if 1 am about to bring you. to some dire distress. Yet, 
after all. wdiat have I asked you to do? Only what hundreds of 
girls have done before you — to be married secretly instead of open- 
ly, to conceal the fact of our marriage for a lew weeks only, and 
then to come back with me, my honored wife, to share my home.” 

Yes; the story was specious enough; little wonder indeed that 
Annie was befooled, seeing that she loved him so. Once more she 
promised implicit obedience to all his wishes, and left him. 

It w^as tlie last night she was to spend in the cottage, and during 
that D’ght she never closed her eyes; but she lay awake, watching 
the moonbeams as they crept in at the window, thinking of all that 
was past and what might possibly lay before her. If George Red- 
ruth had spoken fairly— :tnd why, she asked herself, should she 
doubt him, and he had really very little to dread. If her father 
and mother suftered pain at her sudden flight, it would be for such 


THE MASTER OE THE MIKE, 


147 


a very little while; and afterward the great joy wdiich her return 
would bring them would make amends for all. IStill, Annie was 
not satisfied; her training had been rigid, and now her conscience 
troubled her sorely; but it was too late to repent: since that inter- 
view of the night before she felt she dare not disobey her lover. 

She rose early and came out of her bedroom while my uncle and 
1 were preparing to pay our early visit to the mine. We were both 
astonished to see her up, but she said, as an excuse tor any excess- 
ive paleness, that she had a bad headache and could not rest in 
bed. 

My uncle took her face between his hands and kissed it fondly, 
murmuring, 

“ This won’t do, we maun ha’ roses in these cheeks o’ yourn. 
What would 1 do wi’out my little lass!” 

Annie stifled a sob, and turned away with her eyes full of tears. 
She put on her hat and waked with us halt the way to the mine — a 
thing she had never done before. She held my uncle’s hand all 
the way, 1 remember, and asked him to kiss her when she decided 
to go back and make things ready for the day at home. 

We got home rather earlier than usual that evening, and when 
we reached I he cottage we found Annie busy setting out the things 
for tea. It had been baking-day, and it seemed as it she had been 
assisting at the work, for her cheeks were flushed now, and all her 
listless tearful manner of the morning had entirely disappeared. 1 
could not help noticing that her hands trembled, that she seemed 
excessively nervous, and was strangely eager to anticipate my uncle’s 
every wish. My auni rebuked h^r once or twice tor what she 
termed her light-headedness, but Annie only put her arms round 
her neck and kissed her. 

“Don’t scold, mother, don’t scold,” she said, ‘‘you wouldn't 
like it if 1 wasn’t here!” 

We sat up pretty late that night, ^nd Annie was amongst ths last 
to retire. When my uncle rose to go to bed, Annie kissed him 
several times, and my aunt rebuked her again for her foolishness. 
Then Annie kissed her again and again. 

“ You don’t mean halt you say, mother;” she murmured, “ you 
know you love me!” 

When we had all retired, and Annie found herself in her room 
alone, she sat down and cried very bitterly. Her last adieus had 
been said, the time for her departure was near at hand, and all her 
spirit seemed going. Again she hesitated; and had she been left to 
herself that night, that fatal step would never have been taken. 


148 


THE MASTER OF THE MIKE. 


Suddenly she started, a faint whistle reached her from without. 
Hurriedly drying her eyes, she opened the window. There was 
George Redrulh standing just outside. 

“ Are you ready, dearest?" he whispered. 

**Yes!" she replied. 

Is there any one about?" 

“No! they are all in bed; 1 think they must be asleep. It is 
getting late, isn’t it?" 

“It is close on midnight, (iive me out what things you are 
going to take; 1 hope it isn’t much, and then come round and join 
me at the door." 

Annie had collected a few necessaries, and they were mavie up 
jnto a small parcel. She lifted it, and as she did so her tears began 
to flow afresh. With tht parcel in her hands, she returned to the 
window. 

“ George!" 

“ Yes, darling?" 

“ Are you sure 1 am doing: right? Are you sure you will bring 
me back very soon, so that I do not cause them much pain?" 

“ Haven’t 1 sworn it? and yet 5 mu doubt me. If you are going 
to be foolish again, you will drive me from you; and Heaven knows 
what the consequences may b§. Come, we have no time to lose; 
be brave, it is your only chance." 

“ Very well, 1 will trust you," she said, as she handed the little. 
packet to him, and closed the window. It was the work of a mo- 
ment to clothe heiself in her thickest cloak and darkest, plainest 
bonnet; then she hurriedly disarranged the bed, and left the room. 
She was trembling violently, and crying like a child. She paused 
at the door of the room where her mother and father were sleeping; 
and, kneeling there, prayed to God to forgive her tor 'what she was 
about to do. Even then, she paused and hung back; but George 
Redruth, growing impatient, entered the kitchen and took her 
forcibly away. 

It was midnight, and pitcli dark; there was not a soul abroad. 
Holding the parcel with one hand, and clutching the girl firmly 
with the other, George Redruth hurried her off. Where they went 
she could not tell, but they soon came upon a dog-cart and a high- 
stepping bay. Annie learned afterward that this had been driven 
out from Falmouth that evening by Johnson, who stood there wait- 
ing for her now. George Redruth addressed him. 

“ Is all ready?" 

“It is, sir." 


THE MASTER OF THE MIME. 


149 


“ The horse fresh ?’" 

“ Very.” 

“ Thai’s all right. Remember my instructions, and cany them 
out to the lettei.” 

He tossed up the little bundle: kissed Annie and lifted her in; 
then, before she could utter a syllable, Johnson sprung in, and they 
were off, leaving George Redruth behind them. Now, in all his 
conversations with Annie, George Redruth had said nothing of his 
plan of sending her awav with Johnson, fearing, no doubt, that if 
she knew her lover was not to accompany her, all her courage 
would go. When, therefore, she found herself in this plight, poor 
Annie’s distress increased, and she asked some explanation of her 
companion. 

It’s all right,'’ he answered, kindly enough. “ He can’t come 
lo-night, but he’ll ]oin us in London.” 

Meantime, the horse, a very fast trotter, was speeding along like 
lightning, covering mile after mile, and plunging further and fur- 
ther into the darkness. 

About six o’clock in the morning they drove into Falmouth, and 
pulled up the steaming horse before the door of the best inn. ITie 
travelers were evidently expected, for there vvas a porter and a 
groom sitting up tor them ; and while the groom took possession 
of the horse, Johnson himself conducted Annie to her room and 
left her at the door. 

“You have only a few hours for rest,” he said; “ we must catch 
the eleven o’clock boat for Portsmouth.” 

Left to herself, Annie threw off her cloak and hat, and looked 
round the room. It was a pretty chamber, much grander than 
anything she had ever been accustomed to before. There were 
dainty hangings to the bed, and pretty dimity curtains to the win- 
dows. Moreover, there was a cheerful fire burning in the grate. 
Beside the hearth there was a large, comfortable-looking easy-chair, 
into wdiich she threw herself. 

She had not closed her eyes for two nights, and was utterly weary 
both in mind and body; and as her head tell back upon the soft 
cushions ot the chair, she fell into a sound sleep. 

She was awakened by a loud knocking at the door. She started 
up; it was broad daylight, and the fire was out and the room looked 
cold and cheerless She opened the door, and found the chamber- 
maid standing outside with a jug of hoi water in her hand. 

“It’s ten o'clock, miss,” said the girl. “The gentleman saya 
you shall have your breakfast here in a quarter ot an hour.” 


150 


THE MASTER OF THE MIKE. 


Dazed and half stupefied, Annie took the jug from the girl's 
liands, and, closing the bearoom door again, began to arrange her- 
self for the day. 

At the end ot the fifteen minutes, the chambermaid returned with 
the breakfast, temptingly arranged on a tray; a few minutes later 
Johnson made his appearance. Instead of standing at tlie door as 
the chambermaid had done, he entered the room and closed the 
door behind him. 

“ All ready?” he began cheerfully. ‘‘That’s all right!” Then 
his quick eye fell upon the bed and the breakfast, and he gave a 
peculiar w^histle. ” Come, this won’t do,” he said; ” no sleep and 
no food, you’ll wear yourself out, my dear!” 

These words, spoken rather kindly, touched Annie’s heart, and 
she began to cry 

1 can’t go on, Mr. Johnson,” she said. “ 1 know my coming 
away has been a mistake. 1 should like to go back again!” 

After his first surprise was over, Johnson pointed out to her the 
utter improbability of any such attempt; and, after a good deal 
more crying, Annie saw the force of his argument and yielded. 
"Yes: the fatal step had been taken — it was too late to think of re- 
turning now; the only thing to do now was to make the best of 
matters and go right on. So Annie again put on her cloak and 
bonnet and announced herself ready to go. 

‘‘ You had better put on a veil,” said the practical Johnson. 
” AVe may be seen, and that would be awkward for me. Haven’t 
got one! Well, upon my word, you aie a little simpleton; but we 
mu^t make the best of it; 1 suppose. Here take my arm and 
hang your head a bit; we’ll get on board as quick as possible, and 
perhaps will escape scot-free.” 

They passed down the stairs, entered a closed cab which stood at 
the door, and were rapidly driven away. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 
amie’s story { concluded ). 

At seven o’clock that same evening, the two arrived in London, 
Johnson tolerably contented with himself for the neatness and dis- 
patch with which he had managed the jouiney, little guessing that 
he had been detected by ihe keen eye of John Rudd. Arrived at 
Euston, a four-wheeler was summonea, and Ihe two got into it and 
were driven away. Then Johnson turned to Annie. 


THE MASTER OF THE MIKE. 


151 


“ My dear,” he said, ” 1 may as well make you acquainted with 
our plans now. The fact is, the master won’t be able to join you 
for a week, and 1 am going to stop and take care of you till he 
comes. 1 have taken some apartments for that week in a hotel; 
and. in order to simplify matters, 1 have given our names as Mr. 
and Miss Johnson. Therefore, for the time being, you are my sis- 
ter, IMiss Annie Johnson. Do you understand?’' 

Annie nodaed. She quite understood} though she was begin- 
ning to feel alarmed as well as puzzled at the strangeness of the 
whole proceedings. She was still more alarmed at tiie subsequent 
manner in which Johnson conducted liimself. True, he had taken 
rofuns in the hotel, as he had said— private rooms, which they oc- 
cupied in common. She was apparently allowed to go and come 
at will; vet she soon found that she was as much a prisoner as if 
she had been inclosed by iron bars. Wliatever she did, Johusou 
knew of; and once or twice, when she a'tempted to write to her 
friends, he quietly but firmly refused to allow any such thing. 

” Look here,” he said, “ don’t you think this here game is to my 
taste at all, ’cause you’d be wrong. I’ve done a goodish many 
things in my time, but running aw'ay wi’ girls, and keepin’ ’em 
caged up like birds, ain’t one of ’em; however, I gave my word 
to young Redruth as I’d keep ye square till he came, and I’m 
agoin’ to keep my w^ord; but precious glad 1 shall be when these 
six days are over.” 

In due time the six days came to an end, and Annie received from 
Johnson the glad intelligence that on the afternorm of the sixth day 
her lover would be with her. Tiembling with excitement and joy, 
she obe 3 "ed her woman’s instinct, and hastened to make herself 
look her ver}^ best. She arrayed herself in the pretty gray dress 
which she had brought with her from jb^r home, and put some 
flowers at her throat; so ihat when, a few hours later, young Red- 
ruth arrived, he clasped her to him again and again, and, looking 
into her tear-dimmed eyes, said he had never seen her looking so 
pretty in all her life.” 

” And you will never go away from me again,” said Annie, as 
she clung, sobbing, to him; ” you will always stay with me?” 

Always, my darling.” 

** And we — shall — be married—” 

” This very night. Though 1 have been away, 1 have not been 
unmindful of my duty to you, my pet. 1 have arranged for our 
marriage; 1 have taken a house where we will live. We will go 
straight from here after dinner, and get the ceremony over. It will 


152 


THE MASTER OF THE MINE. 


be a quiet marriage, and, lo you, a strange one, I tear. It will 
not be solemnized in a church, with all the brightness and beauty 
that should have surrounded my darling. We shall go before a 
registrar and be married quietly— this is another sacrifice which my 
love demands. ” 

But this was no sacrifice to Annie so long as she was married, 
and knew her love to be no sin — that was all she asked: so she 
cried a little on this shoulder ; but it was tor joy, not sorrow. 

Everything seemed changed now ihe young -master had come. A 
charming little dinner was ordered and served in the handsome sit- 
ting-room, which during the past week had been occupied by John- 
son and Annie. The little party of three sat down to it— Redruth 
making the most convivial of hosts; after the dinner was over, 
Johnson took his leave; and the lovers were alone. There was no 
time just then for billing and cooing; if anything was to be done it 
must be done quickly, for the day was well nigh spent. George told 
Annie lo get on her bonnet and cloak; she did so, and the two got 
into a hansom and were driven away. 

How strange it all seemed to her — to be speeding thus through 
the streets of London with her future husband by her side. She 
was on her uay to be married, dressed in an old bonnet and cloak 
which she had often worn at St. Guilott’s, with no wedding favors, 
no joyful faces about her. Looking back upon this episode m later 
years, she saw in it the dreadful foreshadowing o1 all that was to 
follow, the misery, the degradation, the shame. But at the time 
she saw nothing of all this; the sordidness was illuminated lo her 
by the fact that she had beside her the one man whom, above all 
others, she loved — and who loved her. 

The memory of that episode had faded somewhat away. She re- 
membered only faintly that the hansom set them down before the 
door of a dingy office in some back slum of l^ondon, that before 
two men the marriage ceremony was gone through, and that when 
she re-entered the cab she wore a wedding ring on the third finger 
of her left hand, and firmly believed herself to be Mrs. George 
Redruth. 

The house which he had taken for her, and to which he conduct- 
ed her immediately after the ceremony, was situated in a London 
suburb It was an elegant little mansion, furnished and fitted in 
a style which completely dazzled poor Annie. But in those early 
V days of their union he certainly loved her as much as it was in his 
power lo love, and Annie v\as happy. Besides, he was always 
with her: during the day they drove together, and in the evening 


THE MASTER OF THE MINE. 


153 


they went to the theater or opera — Annie clad in s^ilks and satins 
like some great lady of the land. But things could not be expeci- 
ed logo on so forever; and after awhile, Redmlh began to leave 
her; for short periods at first, and afterward for longer— and h's 
manner-, at first so ai-deut and overflowing, gradually cooled. At 
first, Annie was heart-broken, and during his absences, cried bitterly 
in the secrecy of her own room. Then she brought reason to her 
aid, and acknowledged to herself that it was the lot of every happy 
bride to pass through the experience which was coming to her. 
After a man had become a husband, it was impossible for him to 
remain a lover— at least, she had been told that was the common 
belief, so she must try to be content. But at times, try as she 
would, she could not help grieving. Thus it was that George Red- 
ruth found her very sad one evening, when he returned to her after 
an absence of several days. He came in jovial enough, for he had 
been dining at the club with some friends. He took her in his arms 
and kissed her; then he looked into her eyes. 

“ Why, Annie, what’s thisif” he said. “ You’ve been crying.” 

** Just a little, because 1 tell so lonely. It is so dreary here when 
you are away, and you are away so much now.” 

“If i am, it is no fault of mine, my pel; important business, 
which you would not understand, occupies nearly all my lime; 
affairs are getting so complicated that, unless 1 do something and 
quickly, 1 shall be a beggar. But come, it's only for a little while, 
when things are put straight, as I hope they will be soon, we will 
go abroad and be constantly together. Now, dry your eyes, 
darling, and see what 1 have brought you.” 

He produced a little packet, opened it, and showed her a gold 
bracelet. 

“ Isn’t it pretty?” he asked. 

Yes; it is pretty, but — ” 

” "Weli, m}^ pet?” 

“ There is something 1 would rather have than all the bracelets 
in the w'orld.” 

” What is that, Annie?” 

‘‘The sight of my home, and of my dear father and mother. 
Oh, George, why can 1 not write to them and tell them that 1 am 
your wite?” 

‘‘ You are foolish, and don’t know what you are saying. A lit- 
tle while ago, when you first came here, you said it you could let 
them know that j^ou were well and happy it would content you. 1 
allowed you to write, yet you are unhappy and complaining to me 


154 


THE MASTER OF THE MIME. 


again. 1 have told you repeatedly that I have most important rea- 
sons for wishing to keep our union secret.” 

” les, 1 know, but it seems so strange, so unkind.” 

** Annie, can you not be patient for a little while? If you loved 
me as you say, you would obey and trust me.” 

“ 1 do trust you,” she returned, ‘‘with all my heart and soul! 
For your love 1 have forsaken everything— home, kindred, friends 
— but when we came away together you promised that in a little 
time 1 should return with you to those who are dear to me. 1 have 
waited very patiently; but to live on here alone in London, to feel 
that they think ill of me and are mourning tor me far away— oh! 
1 can not bear it; .it breaks my heart!” 

“ They know that you are alive and well. Surely that is enough. ” 

” Ah, if you knew how dear 1 am to them! Since 1 was a child, 
until the day 1 capie away with you, 1 had never left my home. It 
see«is so dreary in London after my happy home! Often when you 
are gone 1 sit at the window there and look out on the great city; 
and when 1 hear the murmur of the folk it seems like the sound o' 
the sea.” 

“ My darling, this is mere sentiment, which you will foiget. 
Surely London, with all its life and gayety, is merrier than that 
dreary place where 1 first found you like a flower in a desert un- 
worthy of such beauty? Come, kiss me, and try to confide in me 
a little while yet. 1 wish to make you happy. 1 love you truly, 
and dearly; but 1 have much upon my mind of which 1 can not as 
yet speak freely. Try to be contented here a little longer; thtn, 
perhaps, the mystery will end. You will try, won’t you?” 

“ Yes, George; I will try!” 

So the discussion ended, and for a time things went on as they 
had done before. His absences became more frequent and more 
prolonged; but Annie, since that last talk with him, had learned to 
look with different eyes upon her lot, and bore all without a mur- 
mur. She could not blame him, she loved him too well for that; 
and after all, she thought, she could not rationally blame him for 
anything. He had done all that he could do. He had made her 
his wife, he had given her a home fit for the greatest lady, he had 
even allowed her to write to her friends, saying that she was happy. 
He could do no more. 

But this blissful state of things was not destined to last. Redruth 
came to her one day and told her that the house in which she Jived 
had become too expe::isive for his means; that he had taken rooms 
for her, and that she must remove to them with all possible speed. 


THE MASTER OE THE MINE. 


155 


Anuie was quite content to do as he wished. She had never had 
much taste for splendid surroundings, and the house, without her 
husband, was dreary enough. Accordingly, she was removed to 
the apartments in which I afterward found her living in the Strand. 

“ Very little happened tome worth telling,” said Annie, continu- 
ing her narrative, “until that day when I met you, Hugh. An! 
1 shall never forget that day. After you had left me, being dragged 
away by those men who accused you of murder, 1 remained in that 
room stunned and stupefied, utterly incapable of realizing what 
had happened. Then it all came back to me. 1 seemed to see 
'again your reproachful look— to hear again the dreadful words 
you uttered when you left me. 

“ ' When the time comes,’ you said, ‘ may you be as well able to 
answer for your deeds as 1 shall answer for mine. The trouble be- 
gan with you, if murder has been done, it is your doing also — 
remember that!’ 

“ Those were the words, Hugh. Night and day they have never 
left me, and 1 think they never will until I die. Ah! if I had only 
died then! But it is just that I should live on— it is part of my 
puuishment to live on and see those that 1 love best in all the w orld 
droop and siifier da^ by day for the wrongs that 1 have done. 

“ Well, Hugh, I was stunned, as I tell you; then suddenly 1 re- 
covered myself, and rushed, screaming, to the door, with some 
wild idea of saving you, and bringing you back, when 1 was met 
at the door by my husband. Whether or not he knew anything 
of what had taken place, 1 don’t know. 1 was too much agitated 
myself to think of him. But in a wild fit of excitement and ter- 
ror, I clung to him and told him all. When I had finished my 
tale, he looked at me with such a calm, cold gaze, it nearly drove 
me mad. 

“ ‘ It’s a very bad job,' he said; * but really 1 don’t see what 1 
can do?’ 

“ ‘ Then 1 will tell you,’ I answered. * iou can take me back 
to St. Gurlott’s, and help me to prove that my cousin is innocent 
— as he is, God knows I’ 

“ ‘ Take you back to St. Gurlott's?’ he said. ‘ In What capac- 
ity; as Annie Pendiagon, or as my wife?’ ^ 

“ * As your wife,’ 1 replied. 

“ Uh, Hugh, 1 shall never forget the look that came into his 
eyes. He smile:! as he replied, 

“ ‘ I can not do that,- because you are not my wife.’ / 


156 


THE MASTER OF THE MIKE. 


“ ‘ Not your wite!' 1 repeated, scarcely believing that 1 heard 
aright, but having once begun it seemed easy for him to continue. 

“ ‘ No.’ he replied, ‘ you are not my wife. It you hadn’t been 
a little fool you would have known it long ago.’ 

‘ But we were married,’ I persisted. 

“ ‘ We went through a marriage ceremony,’ he replied, ‘ because 
1 wanted to guard against long faces and reproachful looKs. After 
the ceremony you were perfectly contented, but 1 knew that we 
were no more man and wife then than we had been befoie. The 
ceremony was a mock one, the Registrar was an impostor, whose 
services 1 had bought; it he hadn’t been he would never have per- 
formed the ceremony in the evening; if you hadn't been a fool 
you w^ould have known that a marriage is no marriage is that per- 
formed fitter twelve o’clock in the dav.’ 

“ Again 1 looked at him in petrified amazement; then, realizing 
what all this meant to me, I fell sobbing at his feet. 

“ ‘ George,’ 1 cried, * tell me you are not in earnest — say it is not 
truer but all his love for me seemed to have died away; without 
a look he turned from me. 

“ ‘ It is true!’ he said. 

“ ‘ Ah! don’t say so,’ I cried, clinging helplessly to him. ‘ Say 
that 1 am your wife; it is the only comfort I have had left to me 
during all the.-e weary months that have passed awMiy since 1 left 
my home! Do not take that from me! In Heaven’s name, have 
pity! Ah, you would have me think ill of you; but I will not. 
You would never be so base as to deceive me so! Y^ou, whom 1 
loved and trusted so much, would never wreck my life and break 
my heart. 1*11 not believe but you are my husband still!’ 

“ 1 covered my face with my hands, and cried bitterly. After a 
while he came to me and raided me from the ground. 

“ ‘ Annie,’ he said, ‘ my poor little girl, be comforted. I have 
told you the truth—you are not my wdfe! You can never be tnat; 
the difference in our stations is so great that a marriage with you 
would be my ruin. 1 have deceived you cruelly; but my heart is 
still yours, and till death comes 1 shall love and protect you. We 
will leave this place; we will leave England together. Then, far 
away, in some freer, brighter land, where these distinctions do not 
exi8t.*we shall dwell in happiness and peace.* 

“ But 1 shrunk from him. 

“ ‘ Do not touch me!’ I cried; ‘ do not speak to me liked hat!’ 

“ ‘ What is It you regret?' he asked*— ‘ A mere form! Love is 
still love, despite the world!’ 


THE MASTER OF THE MIKE. 


157 


‘ Love is not love,’ 1 replied, ‘ till sunclified and proved. You 
have profaned it! You have broken my heart and destroyed my 
peace torever. * 

“‘You talk wildly, Annie/ he returned. ‘1 tell you 1 will 
atone. All 1 have is yours; and 1 will devote it to your happiness. 
Can you not forgive me?* 

“ ‘ Forgive you?’ 1 replied. ‘ Yes, God help me, 1 forgive you. 
Good-bye!’ 

“ * Why, where are you going? 

“ ‘ Back to my home.’ 

“ Before 1 could say more, the expression of his face changed, 

“ * 1 see,’ he said; ‘you wish to ruin me. To publish all over 
the village the story of what J have done. You will not stand 
alone disgraced— you would disgrace me, too. But 1 am not such 
a fool as to let you. You are with me now; you will remain with 
me until 1 choose to let you go.’ 

“ At the time, 1 did not know of anything that had happened at 
St. Gurlott’s since I had left it. 1 know now he dreaded to be ex- 
posed before Madeline Graham. He kept me a prisoner in those 
rooms for several days; but at last I managed to make my escape. 
You know vvhat happened after that, Hugh. 1 made my way to 
Falmouth; and there you fcund me, when 1 was almost starving.. 
If you had not discovered me 1 should have died.” 


CHAPTER XXXll. 

THE RETURN HOME. 

Thus 1 have pieced together the narrative which my cousin 
retailed to me in little episodes, lingering, as women will, on de- 
tails which seemed trivial in themselves, but which, when care- 
fully criticised, were full oi significant meaning. Lost in astonish- 
ment and indignation, 1 heard till the end— when the whole of 
George Redruth’s villiiny was apparent. 

My experience of the world was, as the reader knows, most 
rudiment ary; I knew next to nothing of its viler passions, still 
less of its great crimes. That any human being calling himself 
a man could be capable of cold-blooded treachery to a woman 
whom he promised to love was almost incredible to rae; 1 had 
heard of such things, but they had appeared to me always in the 
nature of romance. But if 1 was aghast at the record of George 


158 


THE MASTER OP THE MINE. 


Redruth’s evil doing, 1 was no less amazed at Annie’s extiaof' 
din ary patience under wrongs so monstrous. The man had de- 
served no mercy. 

I said as much, in bitter enough language; but Annie only 
wept, and shook her head. 

“ Bad as he has been to me, 1 am sure he has a kind heart; 
and oh! Hugh, 1 loved him so much. And he used to love me, 
1 am sure, till Miss Graham came between us.” 

” You say that 3^11 went through a ceremony of marriage?” 1 
said. ‘‘Annie, 1 believe 3 mu are his wife after all!” 

” In the sight of God 1 am. But Hugh, dear, it it had been 
areal marriage, he would never dare to wed again.” 

Such a scoundrel would dare anything,” 1 cried, fiercely. 
“It is well you came to me, for there is yet time. He shall ao 
you justice! It he refuses to do so, 1 will teach him such a les- 
son that he will never again dare to hold his head up before the 
world!” 

If the truth must be told, Annie’s story, painful and terrible 
as it was, brought me a certain sense of relief. If it were true 
— and how could 1 doubt it, coming to me with such sad assurance 
of truthful tears and protestations?— surely Madeline would never 
consent to marry the author of such mischief. Whatever hap- 
pened, she must know the truth without delay; and, all other 
means failing, she should hear it from my own lips. Yes, face 
to face with the man who was to be her husband, I would warn 
her of his unworthiness; nol, alas! in any hope that his over- 
throw could ever be my gain, but purely in the wish to save her 
from future misery and degradation. If, after having been 
assured of the truth, she still persisted in the union, she would 
do so with her eyes open, and 1~1 sliould have done my duty. 
Such a contingency, however, was scarcely possible. 

Long after Annie had told me everything she had to tell, John 
Rudd came in and joined us. He had, doubtless, prolonged liis 
absence, knowing that we had much to say to each other. When 
1 told him that it was my intention to return at once to St. 
Gurlott’s with my cousin, he seemed astonished, but made no 
remark; nor did Annie herself, though 1 saw that she was terri- 
fied at what might ensue, offer any objection. 

Leaving them in the cottage to partake of some simple re- 
freshment, 1 walked down to interview Lord ’9 solicitor, and 

fortunately found him at home. 1 informed him that domestic 
oircumstances necessitated my return to St. Gurlott’s for several 


159 


THE MASTER OF THE MIKE. 

days, and that, in the event of his refusing to give me leave of 
absence, 1 should simply throw up the situation. 1 saw he did 
not wish to lose me, and rather than do so, he assented to my 
departure, making me promise, however, to return as soon as 
possible. 

Early in the afternoon, we left Gwendovey in the country cart, 
John Rudd diiving, and 1 seated by Annie's side. On reaching 
Torboine, 1 was eager to push on home at once, and succeeded 
in hiring at the inn a gig and a fast trotting horse. So we said 
good-bye to our friend the carrier, whose wagon was waiting for 
him in the town, and whose business would lead him next morn- 
ing Falmouthward, and, after night-fall, turned our faces to the 
west. 

It was a long journey; traveling nearly all night, at the rate of 
seven or eight miles an houi, we did not sight the old village till 
it was almost daybreak. We said little on the way; our hearts 
were too full for much talk; but now and again 1 questioned my 
cor.sin about the past, and every piece of information 1 elicited 
showed me more and more that George Redruth deserved no mercy. 
All that 1 hoard, too, implicated the murdered man Johnson in 
the infamous plot for Annie’s ruin. Well, he had paid the 
penalty of his guilt — terribly, swiftly, and unexpectedly; and it 
was some comfort, at least, to know that, although he was not the 
main mover in the business, he had to a certain extent deserved 
his fate. 

Though the sun was not up, some one was stirring in the cottage, 
for there was a light in the window. 1 jumped to the ground, 
helped Annie down, and paid the driver, who walked his horse off 
in the direction of the village. 

“ Annie,’' 1 said, as we paused at the cottage gate, “ whatever 
happens, we must keep this from your father. For his sake, and 
for Ids sake only, we must act very cautiously. Do you under- 
stand?” 

” Yes, Hugh,” she answered. Alas! she understood little or 
nothing of what was really passing in my mind! 

The door was unfastened; for, indeed, lock and key were in 
little request at St. Gurlott’s, which was peopled with honest 
folk. We walked in, and, entering the kitchen, saw my uncle’ in 
his shirt-sleeves, reading by the light of a candle. 1 glanced at 
the book before him; it was the old Bible, with his own name, 
his wife’s, and Annie’s, with the dates of marriage and of birth, 
on the fly leaf. 


160 


THE MASTER OF T^E MIKE. 


We entered, but he did not look up. A poor scholar, he was 
spelling his way through a chapter, and muttering the words 
aloud. But when 1 drew nearer and spoke to him, he started up 
with a cry, pale as death, with the sweat standing in great beads 
upon his wrinkled brow. 

“ Who be thar?’” he cried. “ Help!” 

“ What, don’t you know me?” 1 said, forcing a laugh. ” It is 
1, Hugh Trelawney, and Annie, your daughter.” 

” Hugh! Annie!” he repeated, drawing his hand nervously 
across his lips. “ Why, saw it be! Why did ’ee coom upon me so 
sudden like? 1 did not hear ’ee. Annie, my lass, 1 thought you 
were away at Gwendovey, wi’ your cousin. What brings ’ee 
home saw soon?” 

Annie and 1 exchanged looks, and, after a warning movement 
of the eyebrows, 1 replied, 

‘‘ Oh, it’s all simple enough. 1 was a bit homesick, and was 
going to run over when Annie turned up. 1 hope you’re glad to 
see me, uncle? I’m sure 1 am to see you!"' 

I held out my hand, and he grasped it warmly. 

” Glad enough, 1 reckon! Why, 1 ha’ missed ’ee as it you had 
been gawn a year.” He added, seeing my gaze rest on the open 
book before him, ” 1 were reading a bit, my lad, w^hen you come 
in; for 1 were restless like, and couldn’t sleep. Your aunt’s abed, 
and sound as a tawp, 1 warrant.” 

As he spoke, he closed the page nervously, as if fearing that 
we should see what portion of the book he had been reading. 
Annie stooped over him and kissed him tenderly; he looked up 
with a faint smile and patied her cheek. 

‘‘Hugh, my lad,” he said presently, ‘‘1 wish you had never 
left the mine.” 

“ Why, uncle?” 

‘‘ New overseer be a chap fro’ Wales and naw manner o’ good. 
All he thinks o’ is to save money for the company, and he 
dawn’t go down hissen once in a se’nnight Naw the place be 
wuss than ever. Out alawng to the blue gallery, the sea is safe to 
come in, sonce o’ these days.” 

‘‘1 always said so,” 1 returned. “It’s an infernal shame that 
nothing has been done.” 

“ Saw it be, lad. 1 spoke to IVI easier Jarge about it last neet, 
and he ha’ promised to take a last look at ’un before he gangs 
away 1 says to him, says 1, ‘ 1 dawn’t care for mysen, tut I’m 
afeared for the men, Measter Jarge, and 1 do hope summat’ll be 


THE MASTER OF THE MIKE. 161 

done.’ He were kind-spoken, as civil as he allays is, though some 
folk dawn’t like ’un.” 

This was a gentle hint to me. Knowing what 1 did, and how 
cruelly my uncle’s simplicity had been imposed upon, 1 could 
hardly refrain from committing myself, but 1 thought of the pos- 
sible consequences, and held my tongue. 

By anyl by my aunt came down, and we all breakfasted together; 
after which, my uncle went off to the mine. Kot till he was gone 
did my aunt set free her tongue, but his departure was tlie signal 
for a series of questions as to the cause of my unexpected return. 

The old man’s mind was too full of his own troubled thoughts 
to have much room for conjecture; always simple, he now took 
things as they came, in a dazed, helpless manner pitiful to behold. 
"With my aunt it was different. NVith her character istic common 
sense, she perceived that my coming was due to no mere attack of 
homesickness, but betokened urgent business on hand. 

She soon came to a natural conclusion— that 1 had been drawn 
thither by the news of the approaching marriage. 

“ You had better ha’ stayed away,” she exclaim bd. “ ’Tis the 
aw Id tale o’ the burned moth and the candle, lad! When Annie 
said she were gawing across to see thee, 1 w^ere glad, thinkin’ 'ee 
might be company till each other; but she took ’ee the news she 
should ha’ kept to hersen, and nawt would please ’ee but coming 
where you warn’t wanted.” 

” Never mind, aunt,” 1 said, as cheerfully as possible. “ 1 am 
not going to break my heart, at all events.” 

*‘ May be nawt,” she answered; ” but you was better far away,’’ 

As soon as possible, 1 left the cottage, to think out the situation 
for myself. Now that 1 had come home, 1 felt in full force the 
awkwardness of my position, How was 1 to take firm ground in 
Annie’s name, and yet keep the truth from my uncle, the shock 
to whose already shattered system 1 so much dreaded? From every 
point of view, indeed, the pioclamation of the truth would be a 
calamity and a scandal; yet it must be made, for Annie’s sake, for 
Madeline’s. My only course was to proceed as cautiously as possi- 
ble, first sounding the main actor in the drama and ascertaining 
what he had to say in his own defense. With this view 1 deter- 
mined to go at once to Redruth House. 

It w'as a wild windy day, with frequent showers of rain. As 1 
approached the avenue, 1 heard the dreary ” sough ” of the wind 
in the trees, and my thoughts went hack to the day when 1, a boy, 
met George Redruth, a boy, in that very place. Nothing was 
0 


162 


THE MASTER OF THE MIKE. 


changed; the trees, the rusty gate, the quiet road, were all the same; 
yet what dark vicissitude's had come in all those years! 

I had opened the gate, and was passing in, when a voice called 
me. 1 turned and saw my cousin. She had followed me trom the 
cottage, with her shawl thrown over her head to protect her from 
the rain, which was falling heavily. 

“ Hugh,” she cried, panting, and placing her hand on my arm, 
“ where are you going?” 

‘‘ Up to Kedruth House. It was for that 1 came.” 

‘‘Not today! Don’t go today!” she exclaimed, trembling 
violently. 

” 1 have no time to waste,” 1 replied, ” and 1 must have it out at 
once. Go home, and leave it all to me! I have promised to see you 
righted, and 1 will keep my word.” 

But she still clung to me, looking piteously into my frowning 
face. 

“If you must go, promise me—” 

“What?” 

” Promise me that you will do nothing violent. Hugh, dear, he 
is a gentleman —do not provoke him too much!— and remember — 
remember — that 1 love him dearly.” 

‘‘ Can 3 "ou still say that, knowing how he has used you?” 1 an- 
swered, almost savagely. ” Well, 3^011 best know your owm heart; 
and 1 know mine. 1 came to have it out with George Redruth, 
and 1 shall not rest until we meet lace to face.” 

‘‘ Hugh, for God’s sake—” 

” There, there, do not be afraid,” ! said, ” but do as 1 tell you— 
go home and wait for my return. 1 promise you that 1 will be care- 
ful. It only lor my uncle’s sake, I wish to avoid a public scene. 
But he must be made to confess, and Miss Graham must be 
warned.” 

1 left her standing in (he road, and looking after me as 1 ran 
rather than walked up the dreary avenue. At the last bend, just 
before 1 passed from sight, I turned, and there she stood still, 
watching. I waved my hand to her before 1 disappeared. As X 
came in sight of the house, 1 endeavored to keep very calm; but, 
in spite of the effort, my excitement grew— and no wonder, seeing 
the nature of my errand! But the chief cause of my emotion w^as 
the fact that I should soon, in all probability, see Madeline Gra- 
ham. 

1 walked boldly up to the front door and rang the bell. In a few 
momentiS the door was opened by a man-servant. 


THE MASTER OF THE MINE. 


163 ^ 


“ la your master at home?’' I asked. 

“ Mr. Kedruth is iu the drawin/c-room,” replied the fellow. 
“ What name shall 1 say?” 

” 1 will anuouDce myself,” 1 answered, stepping into the hall. 

Having already visited the house, 1 knew my way. As 1 strode 
across tl’e hall, the man followed me, and tried to bar my passage; 
but I pusheii him aside. 

‘‘ Stand out of the way,” i said, and, placing my hand on the 
drawing-room door, 1 threw it open. The man fell back in aston- 
ishment, and i strode in. 

For my own part, 1 felt very like a savage; but 1 was in no sense 
of the word master of myself. 1 had the grace, however, to take 
off my hat. 

l^ound myself in a large, elegantly furnished room, looking to 
the south and opening on a garden terrace. To my simple, un- 
sophisticated gaze, it was splendid enough for a room in a palace; 
but in my present temper 1 was not to be daunted, even by the 
presence of a king. 


CHAPTER XXXlll. 

FACE TO PACE. 

Once inside the room, 1 looked keenly about me, to discover who 
the occupants might be, 1 could see only two— George Redruth 
and his mother. The old lady, looking very white and stately iu 
her robe of black velvet, her snowy hair neatly arranged under 
some black lace, sat bolt upright in a quaint oak chair, working at 
some fancy-work. Kear to her was her son, lounging carelessly in 
a low easy-chair, with his legs crossed, and an open book upon his 
knee. He ceitainly looked very handsome in his spotless clothes 
and snowy linen; and 1 wondered little that bis mother’s eyes rested 
ujion him with such a look of affection, or that poor Annie was 
tempted beyond her strength when she saw that handsome face 
smiling upon her and heard those lips whisper so lovingly in her 
ear. George Redruth was not a man wdio bore upon his person the 
impress of his soul. He had a fair face and a specious manner; 
and any stranger looking at him would have believed him utterly 
incapable of cruelty or wrong-doing. 

My unceremonious entry startled both mother and son. They 
both Icoked at me with an expression which was by no means 
amiable. They both asked what my business was there that night. 


' 164 


THE MASTER OF THE MI]SrE. 


Before speaking, 1 looked again around the room. 1 wished to 
ascertain if Madeline was there. Apparently, she was net. Then 
1 looked at the old lady, and hesitated again. After all, she was 
his mother, and she loved him. Where was the use of giving her 
pain? So i turned to him and said, as quietly as 1 could, 

“ My business is with you, sir.. What 1 have to say had better 
be said to 5mu alone.” 

He moved uneasily in his seat, and darted at me from under his 
brows a look of bitter hatred. 1 thought his face grew very pale, 
but he made an efiort to preserve his cold manner. 

“ You are very mysterious,” he replied; “ but since you have 
thought it worth your while to force your way upon us as you 
have done, you had better say your say and go, before 1 order the 
servants to turn you out.” ^ 

“ Y'ou had better be careful,” 1 replied. “ Once more 1 warn 
you— what you have to hear had better be heard by you alone!” 

He looked in my face again, and something he saw there con- 
vinced him of the truth of my words. He rose, and, throwing his 
took aside, said, with well assumed carelessness, 

“ Very well, since you will have it so; come out on the terrace 
and speak there.” 

He made a movement forward, and 1 was about to follow him, 
when there was another interruption of a most unexpected kind. 
Old Mrs. Redruth rose, and, making a stately moticn with her 
hand, said, 

” George, you will stay here.” 

She was very white, and her hands were twitching nervously. 
Seeing this, Redruth stepped forward with a look of deep anxiety 
on his face. 

” Mother,” he said, “ don’t agitate yourself, for Ged’s sake! Let 
me go with him for a moment.” But this she refused to do. 

” You shall not leave me, George,” she answered. ‘‘It he 
mea.ns to insult you, let him do so before your mother’s face!” 

The strange turn things were taking amazed me, and 1 cried: 
insult him'f You don’t know what you are saying when 
you talk to me like that. 1 have returned to my home to obtain 
' justice; to force a bitter wrong to be righted. 1 am here for that 
now.” 

It was now George Redruth’s turn to be agitated. Turning on 
me a face livid with terroi, he said, 

‘ ‘ My mother is not well. Leave the house, 1 implore you, or 
God knows how this interview will end!” 


THE MASTElt OF THE MINE. 


165 


This 1 refused to do. 

“ Whatever happens,” 1 said, “ no blame can he attached to me. 
I am willing to speak to you alone; but speak 1 mean to before 
1 leave this house to-night. Tell me— is it true that, in two days 
you propose to wed Miss Graham?” 

He was about to answer me, but his mother interrupted him. ^ 

*' Yes,” she replied; ” it is true. Kow, sir, what have you to 
say?” 

”This: that your son had better think well before he goes to 
lead that lady to the altar; because he knows as well as 1 that that 
marriage can never be.” 

” George, what does he mean?” asked the old lady, gazing from 
one to another in trembling agitation. 

‘‘ For God’s sake, mother, keep calm!” said George Redruth, 
who was himself terribly agitated; then he tirrned again to me. 
‘‘ Trelawney, leave the house,” he said. ” If you have anything 
to say to me seek me again ; my mother is ill, and a scene such as 
this promises to be, will kill her!” 

” 1 told you 1 was williilg to speak to you alone,” I said; *‘ but 
since that can’t be, other folk must hear. 1 am here to-day to ask 
tor justice; you best know why and for whom. Do you mean to 
do it?” 

He hesitated for a moment; then he said, glancing nervously 
about him, 

” Y'ou speak in riddles, which 1 fail to understand.” 

” You had best try,” 1 returned, irritated beyond measure by the 
strange coldness of his manner. ” Y’ou know that you have done 
a wrong — do you mean to right it?” 

By this time he had apparently made up his mind as to his course 
of conduct, for he replied, with that same cold sneer upon his lips, 

” Again, 1 tell you, 1 fail to understand you.” 

” Tnen 1 will make my meaning clear. I am speaking of the 
woman whose heart you have broken and whose, life you have de- 
stroyed ; in the name of my cousin, Annie Pendragon, 1 refuse to 
allow this marriage to go on!” 

1 expected to see him cower before this blow, but I was mistaken; 
he was evidently prepared tor anything 1 might say. 

‘‘ My good man,” he said, coolly, “you are raving, or worse. 
Y'ou take, 1 know, a very tender interest in Miss Graham’s welfare; 
and think, I presume, that anything you may be pleased to state 
will be believed by her, and you will thus be able to degrade me 


166 


THE MASTER OF THE MIKE. 


in her eyes. But you are mistaken. Both Miss Graham and my 
mother know me too well to believe one word of what you say!’’ 

1 must confess that the perfect frankness of his manner suc- 
ceeded fcr a moment in putting me at a disadvantage. 1 c( uld 
hardly bring myself to believe that he was lying, yet it must be so^ 

“ Do you deny,” Isaid, ” the story which 1 have, heard from my 
cousin’s lips?” 

” What your cousin may or may not have told you is no concern 
of mine. What is she to me?” 

” She is your wife,’ 1 returned. 

Still he retained his cold, impassive manner; but the old lady 
looked at him with troubled eyes. It was nothing to her that he had 
broken a heart or wrecked a home. According to her, the laborer 
was like the beast of burden; born to bear his load uncomplainingly, 
and to be trampled in the dust, if necessary, at his master’s feet^ 
But the fear that her darling had been made to link bimselt to one 
beneath him was terrible to her. 

** George,” she cried, imploringly, “ what does he mean?” 

He shook his bead; but 1 replied, 

“ 1 mean, madam, that it was your son, and none other, who 
brought all the trouble to our home. Through him, and him alone, 
murder has been done; and simple trusting hear ts have been broRen. 
He came with his spiecious smiling face and lying tongue, and 
wrought the ruin ot as good a lass as ever breathed. Finding her 
to be good and pure, he heaped falsehood upon falsehood until he 
got her in his power; then, coward that he was, he told her of the 
trap into which she had fallen — and left her to 1 he mercy of a 
merciless world. Cowardly, treacherous cur as he is, he has be- 
trayed one woman, but he does not betray another. Let him go to 
the altar with Miss Graham; and, so sure as he stands living before 
me now, 1 will denounce him before them all,” 

” You villain! do you mean to threaten me?” exclaimed Ked- 
ruth, losing for the first time some of his self-command. 

” And it 1 dc,” 1 returned, ” 1 don’t threaten what 1 can’t per- 
form. My cousin has been silent hitherto because she wished to 
spare you; she has returned good for evil, cruelty with kindness; 
but now that she has spoken— now that-I know the truth — 1 am de- 
termined that she shall receive justice. Do you think that she 
alone is to siifl;er~that she must stand alone in her shame, to be 
pointed at by every honest woman? 1 say again she is your wife; 
if not by the laws ol man, at least in the sight of God; and so long 
as she lives you shall not wed another woman!” 


THE MASTER OF THE MIl^E. 


167 


1 paused and looked at him; hisr face was quite Hvid. He pointed 
to the door. ' 

“Leave this house!” he cried, “or by Heaven I’ll have you 
handed over to the police.” 

“ I refqse to stir,” 1 replied, “ until 1 have your answer. It is 
in your power to partially retrieve the past by doing one act of 
justice. Villain as you have been, bitterly as she has been made 
to suffer, 1 believe m}^ poor cousin loves you still. Make that 
mock ceremony a true one; take her to you as your honored wife; 
it is but justice; it is what 1 ask in her name.” 

“ George!” cried the old lady, clinging to him in terror; but he 
only smiled, and said, “Don’t agitate yourself, mother; the man 
is raving!” 

“ 1 have given you your last chance,” 1 said. “ Do you persist 
in your refusal to listen to me?” 

“ Hear me, Trewlawny,” he said. “The story you have fixed 
upon me is one tissue of lies. It you say it is not, bring your wit- 
nesses to prove it; if you can not do so, your fabrication falls to the 
grcuiKl. 1 know nothing of ycur cousin, and 1 am not to be driven 
through fear into mairiage with a peasant girl of light character.” 

“ Good God!” 1 cried, “ what do you mean?” 

“ This: that your cousin, whose moral character is well known, 
will not retrieve her de^ds by vamping up this story against me. 
Women of her class are given to lying; she seems no exception to 
the rule!” 

“ Coward and liar!” 1 exclaimed. Utterly beside myself, 1 raised 
my clenched fist, and should have struck him to the ground. There 
was a shriek, and a heavy thud upon the floor. Terrified and heart- 
sick, 1 drew back, and gazed with wild eyes upon the figure of the 
old lady, which lay, apparently lifeless, at my feet. For a moment, 
1 feared my clinched fist had fallen upon hei, and laid her low; 
but 1 was soon reassured. She had been overexcited with the in- 
terview’, and the fear that 1 was going to strike her son had de- 
prived her of consciousness. In a moment a woman’s figure was 
beside her, kneeling on the floor, and bending forward with tender 
solicitude over the wrinkled face. It was Madeline. TV here she 
had come from 1 could not tell, she seemed to have arisen like a 
spirit from the earth, bhe was .pale, but quite composed, and she 
seemed utterly unconscious of any presence save the one — that of 
the old woman. With tender hands she smoothed back the gray 
hair; she dipped her fingers in the bowl of water which George 
Redruth held, and drew them across the wrinkled brow; she 


‘ 168 


THE MASTER OF THE MIKE. 


piessed her warm red lips to the white cheek, and murmured gen- 
tly, “ Aunt, dear aunt, open your it is 1, Madeline !’' 

For a time the old lady lay motionless—I standing by, unable to 
move hand or foot, but feeling nothing but pity for her. Suddenly 
she stirred slightly and heaved a sigh; then Madeline raised her 
eyes and fixed them upon my face. 

“ Will you go, please?” she said, “ for her sake. If she wakes 
and sees you it will be terrible.” 

That was enough; 1 was to obey 7ier wish; so, utterly weary and 
heart-broken, 1 left the house. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

A LAST FAREWELL. 

In a strange, bewildered state of mind 1 left Redruth House, but, 
instead of going straight back to the cottage, 1 took a turn across 
the moor; 1 knew if 1 returned to the cottage in my present state 
of agitation 1 should betray myself, 1 must think matters over and 
come to some definite decision as Ic my movements in the future. 
There was no time to be lost; in two days the wedding would take 
place— therefore my course of action must be mapped out. 

The tone which Redruth had chosen to adopt rather nonplussed 
me; for never tor one moment did 1 take into consideration the fact 
that he might deny all knowledge of my cousin; yet now 1 saw that 
by so doing he gained considerable advantage. He had called upon 
me to jucve the truth of my statement; how oould 1 do so? For 
myself, 1 had been willing enough to accept Annie’s version of the 
story as the true one, but it seemed that that was not enough. For 
proofs— how could 1 obtain them? Johnson, the prime mover in 
the affair, was dead; of the man who performed the marriage cere' 
mony, Annie had no knowledge whatever; and even had it been 
otherwise, it would have taken time to discover him; and 1 had no 
time, since the marriage was to take place in two days. Yes; it 
was clear that my story must rely for its acceptance upon the word 
of my cousin; and it she chose to proceed and dispute that word, it 
was equally clear it could not be substantiated. 

The next thing to be considered was my next move— what that 
ought to be, 1 could not determine; the fact that 1 must keep all 
knowledge from my uncle hound me hand and foot. If 1 de- 
nounced Redruth publicly, and made an open scandal, the whole 


THE MASTER OF THE MINE. 


169 


truth' would be levealecl to my uucle, and 1 positively trembled at 
the thought of what he might be tempted to do. 1 walked thus 
ponderiug for hours, finally feeling somewhat calmer, but, having 
arrived at no definite conclusion as to my future plans, I returned 
to the cottage. My uncle, aunt, and Annie were all there—more 
over, there was honest John Rudd partaking of my aunt’s tea and 
hot baked scones. 

“It be loike awld times to see Measter Hugh amang us agen,” 
said he, as 1 took my seat at the board; “ reckon ycu’ll be stayin’ 
now, till after the weddin’.’’ 

1 replied that since it was to take place so soon, 1 most certainly 
should. 

“ Ah, then, you’ll ha’ seme o’ the fun!” he continued; “ there’ll 
be rare gawins-on, 1 reckon. They tell me there’ll be a tent put up 
on the fields, and a dinner given to all the miners. B© that true, 
Mr. Pendragon?” 

“ Mawst likely,” returned my uncle. “ 1 know nought o’ that; 
but one thing be certain— the young measter, he be a gawin’ down 
the mine wi’ me to*morrow to see to things, and put matters right 
afore he gang away.” 

Listening to this, 1 inwardly thanked God that my uncle knew 
nothing of the real character of young Redruth. 

During all this time, poor Annie had been moving about busily 
attending to the table; but X saw that what she did was donie more 
to cover her agitation than from any real necessity. Now and again, 
placing herself in the shadow, she tried to read my face— in vain. 
■Wben they spoke of the wedding, her eyes filled with tears, and 
her hands trembled violently. 

1 tried to avoid being alone with her that night, for 1 dreaded to 
tell her what had taken place; but she was overanxious, and would 
not let the night pass. XVhen the house was quiet, all of us having 
gone tc our rooms, there came a gentle tap at my bedroom door. 
Then the door opened, very quietly and stealthily; and Annie her- 
self appeared. 

“ Hugh,” she whispered, “ are you in bed?’ 1 aniwered “ No;” 
and she came in, closing the door behind her. She was partially 
undressed, and had a large cloak wrapped round her. Her beauti- 
ful hair was loosened, and fell in a heavy mass upon her shoulders; 
her face was very pale, and her eyes were still wet with tears. She 
came up to where 1 sat on the side cf the bed, and locked at me, 
stretching forth a trembling hand, which 1 took in mine. 

“ My poor Annie I” I said, involuntarily. 


170 


THE MASTER OF THE MIHE. 


She seemed to understand all that my tone implied, for, with a 
pitiful sob. she shrunk down crying at my feet. 

“Don’t cry, Annie; don’t cry!” 1 said. “He is a scoundrel. 
He is not worth one of those tears. "You must forget him!” 

“ Forget him?” she sobbed. “ Ah, Hugh, dear, it is not so easy 
to forget; for 1 love him so much— I never knew how much till 
now! Hugh, dear, she will not marry him, will she?’* 

“ 1 can not tell.” 

** But you have told her? Does she know?’* 

“That 1 can net tell.” 

She looked at me inquiringly. 

“ Hugh, do you know what you are saying? Surely, if you told 
her, you must know.” 

“ 1 have not told her: but she may know, for all that. There 
has been a strange scene, Annie; and 1 am a bit puzzled to know 
what is best to do. One thing, however, we must be careful to do 
—keep this from your father. He and the young master go dewn 
the mine to-morrow. If your father guessed the story you have 
told me, one of them might not come up again. Do you under- 
stand?” 

“ Yes,” she answered, faintly; “ tut, Hugh, you have not told 
me what he said.” 

“ 1 would rather not do so to-night, Annie. He means to gc on 
with this marriage if he can; but 1 may find a means to prevent it. 
There is time yet. 1 must think it over, and see what can be done. 
But don’t you worry yourself, little woman. 1 tell you he is not 
worthy to possess one hair of your head.” 

At breakfast the next morning my uncle again spoke of the ap- 
proaching visit of the younff master to the mine, and seemed in bich 
spirits about it; nay, more, he seemed quite proud to think that he 
should have been selected above all others to take, the part of guide. 

“ Measter dawn't take to the new overseer chap,” said he. “1 
doubt but he'd be glad to ha’ thee back i’ thy awld place, lad.” 

1 shook my head. 

“ You mustn’t think of that, uncle. I’m well enough placed 
where 1 am.” 

Soon after breakfast he set out fer the mine, where ycung Red- 
ruth was to joi,n him. A couple of hours later a figure entered the 
kitchen where 1 sat ruminating, and, looking up, 1 was astonished 
to see Madeline. 

Her face was very pale and sad, but there was a look of deter- 
minaticn about her eyes and mouth which 1 had never seen there 


THE MASTER OF THE MIME. 


in 


befoie. Sbe walked in at the open dooi and then stood hesitating, 
as if uncertain what tc do. She answered my aunt’s courtesy with 
a kindly nod and smile, and then she looked at Annie, whc, pale 
as death, had shrunk fioin her. !No word of greeting passed be- 
tween these two, but 1 thought that the light in Madeline’s eyes 
grew softer as she gazed upon the pale weary face of my cousin, 
while poor Annie showed in her face the bitter dislike she had taken 
tc the woman who had supplanted her. Madeline turned to me. 

“ Mr. Trelawney,” she said, “ 1 wish to speak to you privately. 
Canl?” 

I replied in the aflormative, and asked my aunt and cousin to 
leave us, which they accordingly did. 

Left alone with Madeline, 1 felt my whole body tremble like a 
tree bending before the breath of the tempesl. But 1 took courage 
to Icok at her, and thus 1 became somewhat reassured. Her whole 
demeanor was calm and cold; she made no attempt tc approach me; 
but she walked over to the window, and looked out, turning only 
occasionally to glance at me while the interview lasted. 

“Mr. Trelawney,” she said, “ when you paid your visit to Red- 
ruth House last night 1 was listening. 1 was in a remote and 
shaded part of the drawing room when you entered; 1 remained 
there during the scene which followed. What 1 witnessed was too 
stormy to be very lucid. 1 want you to make it clear to me now.” 

“ What do you wish me tc do?” 

“ 1 wish you to tell me, if you will, the whole of your cousin’s 
unfortunate story.” 

1 did as she requested; not dwelling too much upon it, tut mak- 
ing every point clear. When 1 had finished, Madeline said, quietly; 

“ How long have you known this story, Mr. Trelawney?” 

“ Two or three days. It seems that Annie had given some 
promise not tc betray that man, and this promise she religiously 
kept until—” 

“ Yes, until—” 

“ Until she was driven to desperation by the announcement of 
his approaching marriage. Sick and heart-broken, she came tc me 
and told me the story. Horrified beyond measure, 1 thought of 
you; and 1 dreaded tc think what your life would be married to 
such a villain. 1 came here determined to face him; and, if possi- 
ble, to prevent the marriage. 1 went to him in all good faith— you 
best know how I was received.” 

“ Do you believe that his marriage with your cousin is legal?” 

“No; 1 Imuestly believe it to be false.” 


172 


ME MASTER OE THE MINE. 


‘ Then you mean to expose him? Since your cousin can not get 
justice, do you mean to make her wrongs known?’" 

1 looked at her for a moment, then 1 answeied: 

“No; 1 have done all that 1 can do. To humiliate him now 
would be to humiliate you— moreover, it would lead to his certain 
death.” 

“ His death? What do you mean?” 

“ This; that it 1 pointed him out as the betrayer of Annie Pen- 
dragon, my uncle would assuredly kill him!” 

She started and trembled. 

“ Don’t fear for him,” 1 said; “ he is safe from me. There has 
been trouble enough here already; God forbid that I should be the 
means of bringing more!” 

There was a long pause. Madeline still stood at the window gaz- 
ing' out with sad, wistful eyes. Then she turned and came toward 
me. 

“ Mr. Trelawney,” she said, “ 1 think you are right when you 
say you will make no public scandal. Let this matter rest, and per- 
haps in time all may come well. You think that your cousin still 
loves Mr. Redruth?” 

“God help her! Yes.” 

“ Then let us pray that her love, and all her patient suffering 
will some day be requited!” 

“] do not understand!” 1 said. 

“No? then you think more badly of me than 1 deserve, though 
Heaven knows 1 have not deserved that you should think well of 
me. 1 told you once that 1 was marrying my cousin because ho 
was poor and 1 was rich. What i told you, 1 told him; 1 knew 1 
could never love him, but 1 wished to help him, and 1 should have 
done so. 1 should have married him; and once his wife, 1 think 
— nay, 1 am sure — 1 should have been able to do my duty. But 
when I gave that promise to him 1 believed him to be a good and 
honorable man. Now, all is changed. 1 believe every word of your 
story, Mr. Trelawney, and, believing it, 1 know 1 can never be 
united to him!” 

She paused lor a moment; but 1 could not speak. Presently she 
continued, 

“ Mr. Trelawney, 1 want you to give me your hand for a mo- 
ment in token of your forgiveness. Heaven has not been merciful 
to either of us, and 1 think it would have been better for us both if 
we had never met. 1 shall leave this place to-morrow; but J shall 
never forget it, and 1 shall never forget you. God bless you!” 


THE MASTER OE THE MIHE. 


173 


Sbe piessed my hand warmly in both of ners, and the next mo- 
ment she was gone. What followed seemed to me a wild dream, 
1 remained tor a time stupefied— diunk with mingled joy and sor- 
row; feeling the grasp of my darling’s hand in mine, and hearing 
still the sound of her loving voice. Then I knew that my aunt and 
Annie had returned, and were questioning me as to Madeline’s 
visit; but their questions were soon drewned in a strange murmur 
which reached us frem without, and the next moment a wild group 
surged up and surrounded the kitchen door. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

THE COMING OF THE SEA. 

** What has happened?” 1 cried, running up and facing the ter- 
ror-stricken men. 

One of them, Michael Penmaur, a stalwart fellow of five-and- 
twenty, stepped forward and acted as spokesman. 

‘‘ What you always said would happen, Measter Hugh. The 
main shaft be flooded wi’ the sea.” 

What this betokened 1 well knew; if the sea had entered, that 
portion of the mine was destroyed forever. 

‘‘ That’s a bad lookout, my lads. Well, it was bound to come 
about; and if there is no one down below, and no life lost perhaps 
’t is all for the best.” 

As 1 spoke, 1 saw them look wildly at one another, and whisper, 
and I guessed that they had something more to tell. 

” What is it, lads?” I cried. ” Speakl” 

“Come outside, Meastei Hugh,” answered Michael Penmaur; 
“ I’ll tell ’ee there.” 

But my aunt, with a wild cry, sprung forward and grasped him 
by the arm. 

“You shall tell it now!” she cried. “ 1 can see it in your face, 
and my dreams ha’ come true. Summit's happened to my man! 
Hugh, make him speak! I can bear it !” 

At that moment Annie entered the room, descending from the 
chamber above, and the moment she appeared my aunt addressed 
her wildly. 

‘‘ You ha’ come in time, Annie Pendragon. All the trouble be- 
gan wi’ ’ee! Bid them speak, then, and tell what’s happened to 
your father I” 


lU 


THE MASTER OP THE MIKE. 


“ Oh, Hugh, what is it?” exclaimed poor Annie, coming to my 
side. 1 told her that the waters had flooded the mine. 

” And father? where is father?” she said, with a sharp presenti- 
ment of the truth. 

Michael Pcnmaur exchanged another rapid look with his com- 
panions, and then replied: 

‘‘ Aour father be dawn belaw, wi’ the young maesier?” 

My aunt utteied a scream, and threw her hands up into the air. 

“Deadl” she cried, “My dream again! You ha' killed him, 
Annie— you ha’ killed your father!” 

“ Ko, no, mother! Don’t say that!” 

“ {Speak, lads!” 1 said. “ Tell me everything, for Gcd’s sake!” 

Then Michael Penmaur, as spokesman, told me, in a few rapid 
words, all he knew: that in the course of the afternoon George 
Redruth had descended the mine in company with my uncle for 
the purpose of inspecting the outer galleries— my uncle, indeed, 
having fetched him for that very purpose; that suddenly, while all 
were busy below, the alarm had been given, and, throwing down 
their tools, the men had rushed up the ladders, while simultaneously 
they heard a tpsh and roar like the sound of the entering sea; that 
as they ascended in wild alarm, the lower ladder broke beneath the 
weight of some of the men, who w^ere precipitated with it into the 
darkness; and that, finally, when they collected at the mouth of 
the mine, they missed, besides several of their comrades, both 
George Redruth and my uncle. 

1 rushed to the door. By this time it was quite dark, and it was 
blowing hard from the south-west, with hail and rain. 1 thought 
with horror of that submarine darkness, and of those who were 
lying even then within it, alive or dead. My mind was made up 
in a moment. 1 did not even wait to speak to Annie or my aunt, 
but, calling on the men to follow me, ran right away in the direc- 
tion of the mine. 

The men followed me in a Dody. When we reached the cliffs, 
we found the wild news had spread, and an excited throng w^as 
gathered at the mine-head, some carrying torches, which cast lurid 
gleams on the rainy darkness. A heavy sea was rolling in on 
the strand beneath, and the white billows were flashing and crash- 
ing. 

{Suddenly a light hand was placed upon my arm, and turning, 
1 saw Madeline; close to her, like a gaunt specter, Mrs. Redruth. 

“ Thank God, you are here!” cried my darling. “ Is there any 
hope?” 


THE MASTER OF THE MIHE. 


175 


1 looked into her white face, and saw in its wild anxiety only 
love for my rival; but at that supreme moment 1 felt no jealousy 
— only supreme pity for her and him. Then 1 glanced at his 
mother, and heard her quick cry of supplication, 

“Save him! SavemysonT' 

Dazed and horrified, I turned round and addressed the men; 

“ Is Mr. Redruth belcw?“ 

“ Ay, ay, measler!“ they answered in chorus. 

“ Who saw him last?’' 

“ 1 did,'’ said Michael Penmaur. “ He were creeping wi’ John 
Pendragon out beyond the bottom shaft.” 

1 walked to the mouth of the mine, and threw open the wooden 
lid. Then, kneeling down, 1 held my ear over the mouth, and 
listened. A sound liKe thunder— a horrible rushing and roaring 
—came from below. 1 had no doubt now that the worst had 
happened. 

The sea had entered the mine. 

There w'as only one chance for those below, if by any possi- 
bility they survived. Some one must descend and rnake an in- 
spection, even at the risk of his life; and, without a mcment’s 
hesitation, 1 determined to volunteer for the task. Strange to say, 
my head became quite cool and clear directly my resolve was made. 
“ Listen, ladsl” I said. “ There’s hope yet, and I’m going down.” 

A faint cheer, mingled with a terrified murmur, greeted my an- 
nouncement. 

“It be no use, measter!” cried Michael Penmaur. “The lad- 
ders be clean gawn.” 

“ 1 know that,” 1 answered; “ but it we can get safely down 
to the middle platlrrm, 1 can descend from there by a rope. Run 
down to the office, some of you, and bring all the ropes and can- 
dles you can find.” 

They rushed oft cheering; and, turning -to those who remained, 

1 explained my plan. Several of them, Michael Penmaur among 
the number, agreed to descend with me to the platform, and to 
lower me thence down the bottom shaft. In less time than it 
takes to write these lines, the messengers returned with several 
coils of rope, and candles; 1 stuck several of the latter about my 
person, and two or three in my wide-awake hat. Then 1 was ready. 

1 had set my toot on the first rung of the ladder, and vras about 
to descend, when Madeline bent over me. 

“ God bless you,” she cried, “ and bring you safe back!” 

X reached up, and taking her hand pressed it to my lips. 


176 


THE MASTER OF THE MIKE. 


“ If he lives,*’ 1 said, “ I’ll restore him to you and to his mother. 
Don’t cry, Miss Graham! There’s a chance yet!” 

1 thought her tears fell tor liim^ and yet, strange to say, she had 
my sympathy; all my wild jealousy seemed to have fallen from 
me like a discarded garment. What was my amaze therefore when, 
bending over me, she took my face between her two trembling 
hands, and kissed me on the forehead ! 

” God will bring you back!” she sobbed, and turned away. 

Scarcely realizing the significance of what had occurred, 1 de- 
scended rapidly, followed by Michael and the volunteers. As 1 
went, the roar from below increased, and the solid rocK on which 
the ladder was set seemed to shake as with an earthquake. In pitch 
darkness 1 reached the first platform. 

Here 1 paused, and, striking a light, lit the candles on my per- 
son. My companions did the same. The lurid light lit up their 
pale, anxious faces, and shot faint rays down into the mine. 

” Now, then, lads!” 1 cried, descending the second stage of lad- 
ders. Some of these were shaky, and 1 had to use great caution; 
but 1 knew the way blindfold, and all my oJd experience of the 
place stood me in good stead. 

At last, with no harm done to any one, we reached the central 
platform. Here the roar was deafening, and the solid rock seemed 
splitting with the sound. 

1 bent over the abyss, and held down the light, using my hand 
as a reflector. Surely enough, several of the ladders had brcken 
away, leaving only the precipitous shaft, steep as the sides of a 
well. 1 strained my eyes into the darkness, and fancied 1 dis- 
cerned, far beneath, something like the gleam of dashing water! 
Then 1 shouted— tut my shout was drowned in the subterranean 
tumult. 

Dn the central platform was a windlass, with a portion of an old 
disused crane. Round this 1 passed one of the ropes, instructing 
llic men to hold one end and gradually give way or draw in as 1 
should direct. Then 1 took the other end, and fastened it securely 
under my armpits. 

“It be naw use, Measler Hugh!” cried Michael Penmaur. 
“ Dawn’t ’ee go. It begawing to your death!” 

But finding that 1 was not to be persuaded, the brave fellow 
wrung my hand, and promised to do his best to help me; nor were 
the others less kindly and sympathetic. As they lowered me over 
the platform, 1 partially supported myself against the slimy rocks; 
but the next moment 1 was suspended in air. Slowly, carefully, 


THE MASTER OF THE MINE* 


177 


they let me down, the candle on my person flickering and flaming, 
and lighting up the damp and oozy walls. At last, some twenty 
yards down, my foot rested on a ladder, descending which 1 reached 
the lowest platform of all. 

Looking up, I saw far above me, as in a narrow frame, the faces 
of the men. 1 shouted to them, but they could noi hear; but 1 
waved a signal to them, and they answered back. Then 1 released 
myself from the rope and prepared to look around. 

Suddenly my foot struck against something soft, like a body ; and, 
stcoping down, light in hand, 1 saw two of the miners . lying 
among the debris of the broken ladder, stone dead, and dreadfully 
disfigured. One was Jem Tredgar, a colossal young fellow from 
Penzance, six feet high, and weighing over fifteen stone. The fall 
had smashed him like an egg, and death had been instantaneous. 

Full of a new horror, 1 leaned over the rlatform and looked down. 
As 1 did so, my head went round, and 1 should have fallen had 1 
not clutched again at the rope, which swung loose close to my 
hands. 

Right under me, flooding the bottom of the mine, roared the sea, 
boiling backward and forward with wild pulsations along tne 
shafts and galleries through which it had broken in. A salt spume 
rose from it, and I he walls of the shaft were dripping and dashed 
with clots of foam. From the point where I stood, the last laddeis 
had been entirely washed or broken away. 

The roar was deafening, but 1 shouted with all my might. 1 
paused and listened; no answer came. 

Again 1 shouted; again 1 paused and listened. 

Suddenly, from the darkness beneath, 1 heard a faint voice an- 
swering me. 

My heart stood still. Then, with an eflort, 1 shouted again. 

The faint cry was repeated. 

“ Who’6 there?’" 1 called; but the sound of my voice was blown 
away, and only the same faint cry came in answer. 

1 seized the rope, and, looking up to the men above me, pointed 
downward; they signaled, and seemed tc understand. Then 1 
secured the rope again under my armpits, and, signaling to them 
tc give way, swung over the platform. 

My instructions to the men had been simple. When 1 tugged 
once at the rope they were to lower away, when 1 tugged twice 
they were to stop lowering, when 1 tugged three times, sharply, 
they were to haul in. The further I descended, the greater grew 
my peril; for the rope was not a strong one, and many of the out- 


178 


THE MASTER OF THE MIME. 


jutting points of rock were sharp enough to sever it by friction; 
add to which, that the long swing at such a distance rendered it 
liable to break should there be anywhere a weak or rotten strand. 

As 1 went down, 1 was conscious of flying spray and splashing 
water; and when 1 had descended some fifteen yards, my feet 
touched the sea. However, 1 made no sign, but, entering the water, 
found myself waist-deep, but touching the bottom. Then 1 tugged 
twice at the icpe, and looked about me. 

The spot where 1 stood formed a sort of submerged shingle, slop- 
ing down to the deeper portions of the shafts and galleries. On 
e^ery side the sea rushed and boiled. As I stood there, it surged 
up to my breast and extinguished the lights 1 carried on my person 
— only those escaping which were stuck miner-fashion, in my hat. 

1 shouted again, almost despairing of an answer. To my amaze, 
a voice answered close by, and, straining my eyes, 1 saw, crouching 
on a ledge of rock just flush wuth the water, two human figures. 

One sat recumbent with his head against the wall; the other lay 
senseless, resting his head on the first one’s lap. Mere like gnomes 
or wild beasts they seemed, dripping wet, and covered with filth 
and ooze. But even in the faint light 1 recognized them. 

Tire man sitting was my uncle, John Pendragon. The man lying 
senseless was George Bedruth. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

THE TWO MEN. 

Hugh, my lad!” said my uncle, stretching out his hands. 

1 waded through the water till 1 came close to him. 

** Ay. here lam!” i answered. ‘‘ Thank God you are safe; but 
is he dead or living?” 

‘‘ Lawd knows!” was the reply, “He ha’ lain like that these 
two hours, andl thought the waters were rising to wash us away.” 

So loud was the thunder on every side of us, that we had to shout 
at each other in order to be heard; and even our shouts sounded 
like mera whispers, though wc were so close togetber. 

1 tooK a light from my hat, and reached out of the water, looked 
into the young master’s face. It was ghastly pale, but there was a 
mark on the temple, as of blood. 1 put my hand upon his heart, 
and diftcoveied that it was faintly beating. 

“ He lives still,” 1 said; then, without more parley, 1 disengaged 


THE MASTER OE THE MIKE. 


1^9 


myseit from the rope, and proceeded [to make it fast to the sense- 
less man. As 1 did so, the water almost swept me away, tut I 
held on to the rock and kept my place. "When the rope was firmly 
secured under George Redruth’s armpits, 1 shook him sharply, 
and, to my joy, he opened his eyes, partially recovering from his 
torpor. 

Then 1 touched the rope, and pointed upward, making signs that 
he was to be drawn up. He seemed scarcely to understand; but,* 
lifting him in my arms, 1 placed him in position, and then tugged 
three times, as a signal for the men to haul in. 

There was a momentary pause; then the rope lightened, and the 
light body began slcwly to ascend. Still waist-ciecp in the sea, 1 
watched it journey upward — lax and loose as a dead thing, now 
rasping against the damp walls, now quivering and turning round 
and round, till it passed the first platform. Far, far above it, 1 
saw the taint gleam from the spot where the men were gathered. 
At last it disappeared irom sight, and I knew that, if life lasted, 
George Redruth was saved! 

Then 1 clambered <>n the ledge beside my uncle, who was still 
lying in the same position, with his head leaning back against the 
dripping wall. 

1 took his hands in mine, and pressed them eagerly. As 1 did 
so, 1 saw, to my horror, that the breast of his mining-shirt was 
saturated with blood, that his face was ghastly white, and that 
there was on his lips a light stain of red. 

“ Are you hurt?” I said, with my lips close to his ear. 

He inclined his head gently, and groaned as if in great, pain. 

It was neither the time nor the place to question him further; 
but 1 pressed his hand again in token of sympathy. Our eyes met, 
and his were full of some strange spBechless sorrow. 

Presently, 1 saw the rope descending, weighted wdth a small bar 
of iron; down it came till it touched the water’s edge. 1 leaped 
down, and wading out, drew it toward the ledge. 

” Uncle,” 1 cried, ” see?— it is your turn!” 

And 1 pointed upward. 

He shook his head feebly. 

** Na, na, lad,” he said. ” Lea’ me here to die!” 

It was not to be thought of. Wildly, in dumb show, I besought 
him to make an effort to ascend, and at last he assented. 

‘‘I’ll try, lad; ITi try!” he said. ‘‘But 1 doubt my back be 
broke. A lump o’ rock tell on me as 1 were carrying young meas- 
ter here.” 


180 


THE MASTER OE THE HIKE. 


1 looked at hira in surprise. To tell the truth, 1 had had a wild 
suspicion, ever since the news of the accident, that it might have 
been caused by foul play on my uncle’s part. 1 knew him to be 
mad with trouble, and it by any chance he had discovered ycung 
liediuth’s guilt, God alone knew what he might have done. But 
if he spoke the truth, and 1 knew well that he was not a man to lie, 
1 had deeply wronged him. Instead of attempting to destroy, he 
had actually imperiled his own life to save the betrayer of his 
daughter’s honor. 

Gently and tenderly, 1 secured the rope around him, but he 
moaned with pain as 1 raised him to launch him upward. As the 
rope tightened, he uttered a cry of agony. However, it was too 
late to avoid the risk, and it was the last chance. 

Supporting him in my arms as long as possible, 1 saw him drawn 
upward. When his full weight fell upon the rope his agony grew 
terrible, and 1 think he tainted away; for he hung in the air like a 
dead man, with limbs and arms pendent. 1 watched him rise slow- 
ly, and felt no little anxiety lest the rope should yield beneath his 
w^eight; for he was a heavy man, compared to whom George Hed- 
luth was a very feather. 

However, the rope stood the test, and he was drawn safely up 
the abyss. After a Icng interval, during which 1 waited in sicken- 
ing terror, with the waters thundering and the rocks quaking 
around me, the rope again descended. 1 seized it, secured it under 
my armpits, and, giving the signal, was drawn upward. 

On reaching the bottom platform, 1 rested a moment; then 1 
signaled again, and rose once more into the air. By this time the 
lights in mj hat were extinguished, and 1 was in total darkness; 
but as 1 gained the middle platform, halt a doaen hands were 
stretched out to grasp me, till tottering and trembling, 1 stood upon 
my feet. 

Wildly and joyfully, the men surrounded me, almost kissing me 
in their rapture at my reappearance. 1 looked round for George 
Redruth. He had recovered from his faintness, they said, and had 
been helped by two of the men up to the mouth of the mine. But 
lying on the platform, his head supported on Michael Penmaur’s 
knee, was my uncle, white and bleeding, like a man whose time 
had come. 

1 knelt by his side, and took his hand. He looked up into my 
face; and 1 saw that his eyes were filmy and dim. The air of the 
mine, even up there, was fetid and foul, and 1 saw that be breathed 
with difficulty* ^ 


THE MASTER OE THE MIKE. 181 

“ Hugh, my lad!’' he said, faintly. “Come close — 1 want to 
whisper to 'ee. Can you forgive me?” 

” Forgive you?” 1 cried, greatly moved. ‘‘ What have 1 to for- 
give?” 

‘‘ Listen, lad, and I'll tell ’eel” 

He paused, his head fell back, and 1 Ihcught that he was gene; 
but the next moment he recovered, and gazed into my face again. 
Just then the two men who had gone up with George Redruth re- 
descended, and one of them held out to me a flask of brandy. I 
took it eagerly, and held it to my uncle’s lips. He drank a little, 
and the spirit seemed to revive him. 

” Hugh! are you thar, my lad?” 

“Yes,” 1 answered, fairly sobbing. 

“ Is that your hand in mine?” 

“ Yes, yes!” 

“Put down your head, and listen. 1 be dying, sure enough, 
and afore 1 die 1 want to ha’ your forgiveness. They would ha’ 
hung ’ee, lad, for what 1 did. ’Twas I that kilted the overseer!” 

I had guessed as much, but when the truth came from my uncle’s 
own lips, 1 started in horror. He clutched my hand, as if fearing 
that 1 would shiink away. 

” ’Twere all on account o’ my Annie, my poor little lass. We 
met out on the clifl beyaut the mine, and 1 taxed him wi’ bringing 
her trouble upon her, and he said summat that made me murdering 
mad. He said she were a light lass, light and bad; and, Lawd tor- 
give me! afore 1 had time to think, 1 struck at ’un wi’ my knifel 
Then he staggered back — ’twere on the very edge of the crag— and 
the earth seemed to give way under him, and he went o’er — scream- 
ing— he went o’er to his death, on the rocks below. That was how 
it cam’ about! 1 didn’t mean to kill ’un, but ’twere done like a 
flash o’ lightning — and the next marning— the next marning— they 
found ’un lying, dead and blocdy, on the shore.” 

The confession came in stifled whispers, often so faint that 1 
could scarcely hear; but other ears heard and understood it as well 
as mine, and when he ceased, a horrifled murmur passed frem man 
toman! 

“ May God forgive you!” 1 murmured, still bending over him. 

He did not seem tc hear me. His eyes were fixed on vacancy, 
his hand clutched mine like a vise. {Suddenly he leaned forward, 
drew his hand from mine, and pointed. 

“ Bee there!” he cried. “ ’Tis hisself all bloody, and beckoning 
wi’ his finger. And wha be that standing by 'un, all in while? 


182 


THE MASTER OE THE MIKE. 


Annie! Annie, my lass! speak to father! speak to —speak to— fa- 
ther 1” 

The last word died away in his throat, where it met the death- 
lattle; there was a struggle, a last convulsion, and he fell hack like 
a lump of lead. 

I think 1 loo must have lost my senses for a time. The next 
thing 1 remember was standing in the open air, and staggering like 
a drunken man, with kindly arms supporting me on either side. 1 
looked round wildly. An excited crowd of women and men sur- 
rounded me; and close by, not far from the mine-mouth, the dead 
body of my uncle lay in llie sunlight, with Annie and my aunt 
bending over it and bitterly weeping. 

I sunk down upon a rock, and hid my face. When 1 looked up 
again, 1 saw George Redruth and his mother standing near me, 
and with them Madeline. 

The young master seemed quite himself, though greatly agi- 
tated. 

“ Trelawney,” he said, “ this is a sad affair. Well, 1 owe you 
my life.’' 

1 looked him coldly in the face: his eyes sunk beneath my gaze. 

“ Ko, sir,” 1 replied. “ You owe your life to the poor martyr 
lying yonder, and you know best what cause he had to love you!” 

‘‘Y^ou are right,” he said. “He began the task which you 
completed. When the outer rock gave way, and the sea rushed in 
upon us, 1 must have fainted ; and Pendragon bore me to the place 
where you found me. 1 will take care that those he leaves behind 
are well rewarded.” 

Again 1 looked him in the face. 

” Too late for that,” 1 answered. 

He returned my look, with something of the old dislike. All my 
spirit revolted against him, thinking of the sorrow he had wrought. 

” It is well fer you,” 1 said, ‘‘ that John Pendragon did not know 
w hat 1 know. Had he done so, perhaps he would have left you to 
the mercy of the sea.” 

” What do you mean?” cried Redruth, turning pale as death. 

” Ask your own heart. God has spared you, and taken a belter 
man. Had you met with your deserts, you would be lying in his 
place.” 

” Take care, Trelawney! I owe you my life, as 1 said, but—” 

” You owe me nothing,” 1 returned. ‘ 1 helped you, as 1 would 
have helped my bitterest enemy, at such a moment. But now that 
it is done, 1 almost wish it were undone; and you know why!” 


THE MASTER OF THE MIKE. 


183 


With an impatient exclamation, he turned away. 

“Come, mother! Come. Madeline! A'ou see how this fellow 
hates me. 1 would gladly own my debt to him, but it is useless. 
Perhaps, when he is cooler, he will permit me to be of service to 
him. If net— "Why, 1 can net help it! Come!” 

Mother and son walked slowly away, but Madeline did not stir. 
She remained where she had been, with her gentle eyes fixed on 
me. 

George Redruth turned and saw her. 

“ Come, Madeline,’' he cried; “ we are not wanted here.” 

“ 1 think 1 am wanted,” she replied. “ Mr. Trelawney, shall 1 
go?” 

And as she spOke she held out both her hands to me with a lov- 
ing gesture. 1 looked at her in wender. Then suddenly the whole 
meaning of her attitude flawned upon me, and, taking her hands 
with a joyful cry, I drew her to my bosom. 

Pale and trembling, George Redruth returned and confronted 
us. 

“ Madeline, what does this mean?” 

“ It means that 1 have found my love Where you found your life 
—in the arms of this brave man!” 


CHAPTER XXXYll. 

THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 

It was the supreme moment of my life; and, standing there be- 
foie my darling, dazed and joyfully bewildered, with her beautiful 
face turned, radiant with love, on mine, well might I have echoed 
the ecstatic cry of the lover of lovers— 

“If it were now to die, 

’Twere now to be most happy; for I fear, 

My soul hath her content so absolute, 

That not another comfort like to this 
Succeeds In unknown fate !” 

But the words which were bliss tD me were gall and wormwrood to 
the soul of George Redruth. Livid with pain, he looked at her who 
uttered them; then, glancing round at the wild groups surround- 
ing us, he said, 

“ You must be mad to speak like that. Trelawney, a word with 


184 


THE MASTER OF THE MIKE. 


you. There shall he an end to this once and torever; come apart, 
and let ns speak together!” 

He walked a short distance along the clifis, 1 following, with Mad- 
eline by my side. When we were out of earshot of any soul there, 
he turned and faced us. His self-control was now remarkable; a 
stranger, looking at him, and observing his manner, would never 
have gathered that he was a prey to the acutest suffering of morti- 
fied pride and passion. 

” 1 might have guessed this from the first,” he said, in a low 
voice “ You, Tielawney, always hated me — and God knows, 1 
returned the compliment! 1 can see now why you saved my life. 
To crush and humiliate me before my cousin, over whose mind you 
have obtained some malign influence.” 

1 looked at him, tut made no reply. He continued, with ap- 
parent calmness, addressing Madeline: 

1 am to understand, then, that cur engagement is at an end?” 

“ Y’es,” she answered. 

“ Very well. You know as well as 1 what that means to me — 
ruin, perhaps disgrace; but 1 am not going to whine over the inev- 
itable. Tielawney, 1 congratulate you,” he added, with a curious 
smile, ” you have won the game.” 

He turned as if to go, but Madeline, with an impulsive cry, in- 
terposed. 

” George, do not talk like that!” she cried. ‘‘ There is a chance 
yet of retrieving the past, and if you will do so, 1 shall still be your 
friend. It was not fated that 1 should ever be your wife; only one 
woman living has a right to that title, and to your atonement. Let 
me go tc her! Let me tell her that you wdll make amends.” 

”1 fail to understand you,” he answered, coldly. ” Of whom 
are you speaking?” 

“ Of xVnnie Pendragon, the poor girl whose heart 3"ou have near- 
ly broken! Y^ou see 1 know every ihing. George — for my sake — ” 

His face darkened, while his lips twitched convulsively. 

‘‘ How kind you are, how solicitous for my moral welfare! It 
is very good of you, 1 acknowledge, to offer to provide me with a 
helpmate, but 1 must politely decline your kind offices. Annie 
Pendragon is nothing to me. 1 am a gentleman, 1 believe; she is — ” 

‘‘Take care!” 1 cried. “Utter one word against her, at your 
peril. 1 do not ask you now to acknowledge her — it is too late for 
that; and even if it could be, 1 think she is better as she is, than 
she could ever become, more closely united to a man like you. But 
^he is sacred, and 1 forbid you even to utter her name.” 


THE MASTER OF THE Mli^^E. 


185 


“ You mistake my meaning/’ he returned, still retaining his 
self possession. “All 1 was going to say was that we are not 
equals. 1 deeply regret wdiat has cccurrecl*—! acknowledge my 
own folly — my own guilt, if ycu like it better; but from this time 
forth we are nothing to each ether.” 

“ George, Georgel” cried my darling in despair. “ Have you 
no heart?” 

“ 1 suppose so, but blame yourself, if it is somewhat leaden on 
the present occasion. 1 am not used to humiliation, you see, and 
though I take my punishment as calmly as possible, I still feel it.” 

1 could have strangled him, he was so utterly cold-blooded. 

“ It there is justice,” 1 cried, “ God will punish you! You have 
not only wrecked one life, but you have destroyed tw'o others. Do 
you know that my uncle, God help him! confessed with his last 
breath that he had killed your accomplice, the man Johnson? That 
man’s death, as well as John Pendragon’s, lies at your door!” 

He started in surprise, but conquered himself in a moment. 

“1 had my suspicions,” he said; “but 1 was silent, for his 
daughter’s sake! 1 fail to see, however, that 1 am responsible for 
the mad act of a murderer.” 

“ You aie the muiderer, not Z^e,” 1 cried. 

“Nonsense!” he answ^ered, and still masteiing himself, he 
walked away. 

I turned and looked at Madeline. She was gazing after him, 
with a face pale as death. 

“ Madeline,” 1 .«taid, “ do not think 1 am fallen so low as to pre- 
sume upon the hasty words you spoke just now. I know that when 
this sorrowful day is over, you will forget them — you must forget 
them, in duly to yourself. It will be happiness enough for me to 
know that, when 1 most needed it, 1 had your sympathy; that if 1 
had been other than 1 am, 1 might have had your love. And now, 
shall we say good-bye?” 

1 held out my hand to her; she gazed at me as if in wonder. 

“ Then you did not understand?” she said, gently. “ Or perhaps 
— you did understand, and 1 was mistaken in thinking that you 
cared tor me— so much?” 

“ Care for you?” 1 repeated, passionately. “Ever since 1 can 
remember, my heart, my whole life, has been yours. It is not 
that ! My love, strong as it is, and ever has been, is not precious 
enough to purchase yours. Dc not think that 1 am so lost, so self- 
ish, as to think that the distance between us can be bridged over 


186 


THE MASTER OE THE MINE. 


by your heavenly pity, lama poor man ; you are a rich lady. 1 
know what that means; 1 have known it from the beginning.” 

As 1 spoke, my heart was so stirred that 1 had to turn my face 
aside, to hide the gathering tears. But she crept close to me, and 1 
felt the soft touch of her hand upon my arm. 

“ 1 do not blame you for thinking^ that,” sbe said. “ A little while 
ago, 1 thought so too; but Hugh, dear— may 1 call you so? God 
has opened my eyes. 1 think 1 always loved you; but never so 
much as to-day.” 

“ Don’t speak of it! It can’t be! Oh, Madeline, let us say fare- 
well!” 

“•Hugh, dear Hugh, listen! You listen! Ah, do not be un- 
kind!” 

“ Hnkind— to 1 murmured. “God knows 1 would die 

for you!” 

“ Had you died down in the mine, 1 should still have been faith- 
ful to you; 1 should nerer have loved another man. May 1 tell you 
the whole truth? I will, and you will understand. When 1 saw 
you going to jmur death — going, in your great goodness and noble 
courage, to save your enemy’s life at the peril of your own— 1 knew 
for the first time that all my heart was yours. 1 did nd deter you, 
but 1 played to God for you, and as 1 prayed, 1 swore before my 
God that, it He restored you to me 1 would lay my heart bare to 
3^ou, and ask you to make me your wife. God was good; you came 
back, as from the giave. And now, will you turn away from me? 
Will you refuse me the one thing remaining that can make life sweet 
and sacred to me— your forgiveness, and jmur love?” 

it was too much. The spell of the old passion came upon me, as, 
sobbing and tiembling, 1 took my darling to my heart. 

Thus it canTiC to pass that 1, Hugh Trelawney, a man of the peo- 
ple, became the accepted lover of Madeline Graham. Looking back 
at it all now, after a lapse of so many years, it still seems an in- 
credible thing, unreal and visionary; but raising my eyes from the 
paper whereon these lines are written, 1 see beside me the sweet as- 
surance that It is true. When 1 began the story of, my life, 1 said 
that it was also the story of my love. It has lasted so long; it will 
last, God willing, till death, and after death. 

“ Is it not so, my darling?” She smiles, and bends* over me, to 
kiss her answer. She watches the pen as it moves over the paper, 
and she waits for the last word, knowing my tale is almost done. 


THE MASTER OF THE -MIHE, 


187 


Lo^e is by nature selfish; and in the first hush of my nevv joy 1 
almost forgot the sorrow in our poor home. But when 1 quitted my 
darling, and joined the little procession which followed my poor 
uncle across the heath, I reproached m3^self for having felt so 
happy. 

The miners had procured a rude stretcher, often used when acci- 
dents took place in the mine, and the dead body was laid upon it, 
with a cloak thrown lightly over it, to hide the piteous disfigured 
face set in its sad gray hair; but one hand hung uncov^ered, and 
this hand Annie held, as we walked slowly homeward, four of the 
men carrying the load. 1 followed, helping my aunt, who was sim- 
ply heartbroken. 

They bore him into the cottage, and women came to do the last 
sad offices. While they were thus occupied, 1 spoke to Annie, try- 
ing to console her. W hite as marble, and now quite tearless, she 
seemed like one whose reason had bereft her, under the weight of 
some violent physical blow. But when we went upstairs together, 
and saw my uncle Ijdng as if asleep, his white hair decently ar- 
ranged, his face composed, his thin bands folded on his breast, his 
whole expression one of mysterious peace, she knelt beside him and 
kissed his cold brow, and her tears again flowed freely. My aunt 
stood beside her, weeping and looking on. 

“ God has taken himP' 1 said, solemnly. ** He is happy now.'* 

“ Ay, happy wi* God,” sobbed my aunt. “ Forty year we ha* 
dwelt together i’ this house, and he ne’er gave me angry look or 
crass word. He be gawn, where I’ll soon gang too. Wait for me, 
my bonnie man, wait for me— wait tor her that loves *ee, and is 
coming to ’ee soonl” 

>Yhy should 1 linger over this scene of sorrow, why should 1 turn 
to other scenes which followed it? Time and Death have healed all 
those wounds; to speak of them, is to open them again. 


CHAPTER XXXVlll. 

CONCLUSION. 

A YEAR after the flooding of the mine and the death of John Pen- 
dragon. I married Madeline Graham. The ceremony took place 
quietly in London, whither we had gone together; and when it was 
over, we spent a brief honey-moon abroad. One spring morning, 
as 1 sat with my bride in an hotel by the Lake of Geneva, 1 read in 
the “ Times ” an announcement that filled my heart with surprise 


188 


THE. MASTER OF THE MIKE. 


and pain. It was an advertisement of tlie approaching sale by auc- 
tion of Iledruth House, St. Gurlott’s, Cornwall. 

A short time before this the mining company had passed into 
liquidation, and 1 knew lhal George Redruth was a ruined man. 
Little or no communication had passed between the cousins, but, 
when the crash came, Madeline, witli my full, consent and sympa- 
thy, had written to her aunt, oftering her a considerable portior of 
her fortune for George Redruth's use and benefit. This ofter had 
been refused. The next thing we had heard was that other and 
son were living together in London, and closely following on that 
had come the news of the mother’s death, an event which filled my 
darling with no little distress. To the last Mrs. Redruth had re- 
fused to forgive her niece, whom she unjustly held responsible for 
all the misfortunes which had fallen upon her son. 

1 showed my darling the newspaper, and we forthwith deter- 
mined to journey down to Cornwall. Thus it happened that, about 
a weei^ later, we arrived in St. Gurlott’s, where we found Annie 
and my aunt ready to receive us at the old coWage. 1 then ascer- 
tained that George Redruth had left England for Ameritia, where he 
intended to remain. Annie, who was my informant, told me that 
before leaving the village he had sought her out to say farewell. 

“ And oh, Hugh,” she cried, “ he asked for my forgiveness, and 
1 forgave him witli all my heart. 1 think, if I had wished it, he 
would have taken me with him as his wife.’' 

‘‘ Tou did not wish it?” 

She shook her head sadly. 

” No, Hugh. After what has happened, it was impossible, and 
1 know it was more in despair and pity, than in love, that he spoke. 
1 scarcely knew him; no one knew him — he was like the ghost of 
his old self; so worn, so broken, with the trouble and shame which 
have come upon him, that my heart bled for him.” 

” He is justly punished,” 1 said sadly. ‘‘ Annie, you did well. 
1 am glad that he is penitent, but never in this world could you two 
have come together.” 

The reader already knows that, through my darling’s goodness, 
X was a rich man. Now, of all men living, perchance, 1 best knew 
the capabilities of the St. Gurlott’s Mine. Reckless neglect and ig- 
norance had wrecked it, and it was still to some extent at the merc^’’ 
of the sea; but 1 had my own theory that more than one tortune 
WPS yet to he discovered there. 1 spoke to Madeline about it; we 
went ipto the matter con amove; and the result was an ofier was 


THE MASTER OF THE MINE. 


189 


made by me for the oM claim to ihe official liquidator of the com- 
pany. Things looked despairing, and as my offer was a liberal one, 
it was accepted. Within another year a fresh company was formed 
with Hugh Trelawuey, Esq., as projector, vendor, and chief owner; 
large sums were expended in the improvements which, if carried 
out, would long before have saved the concern; the sea was gently 
persuaded to yield up possession; and before long the old mine was 
flourishing prosperously, a source of prosperity to all concerned in 
it, and of blessing to the whole population. 

Another fact remains to be chronicled. We bought Redruth 
House, and it became our home. There my aunt and Annie joined 
us, dwelling happily with us, till, in due season, my aunt died. 
Annie liv(?d on, and still lives, a pensive, gracious woman, full of 
one overshadowing memory, and devoted to our children. The last 
time she heard of George Redruth, he was a well-to-do merchant, 
living in the far-away West. 

Thus, through the goodness of God, 1 remained in the old home 
able to help those who in time of need had helped me. St. Gurlott's 
is now a happy, thriving place; my dear wife is idolized by the sim- 
ple people; and, I, in the fullness of my fortunate days, am the 
Master of the Mine. 


THE END. 


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361 The Red Rover 20 

373 Wing and Wing 20 

378 Homeward Bound; or. The 

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379 Home as Found. (Sequel to 

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380 Wyandotte; or. The Hutted 

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394 The Bravo 20 

397 Lionel Lincoln; or. The Leag- 
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400 The Wept of Wish-Ton-Wish. . . 20 

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214 Put Yourself in His Place 20 

216 Foul Play 20 

231 Griffith Gaunt; or. Jealousy... 20 

232 Love and Money ; or, A Perilous 

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235 “It is Never Too Late to 
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593 Berna Boyle 20 

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598 “Corinna.” A Study 10 

617 Like Dian’s Kiss 20 

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590 The Courting of Maiy Smith. . . 20 

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202 The Abbot. (Sequel to “The 

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353 The Black Dwarf, and A Le- 
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363 The Surgeon’s Daughter 10 

364 Castle Dangerous 10 

391 The Heart of Mid-Lothian 20 

392 Peveril of the Peak 20 

393 The Pirate 20 

401 Waverley 20 

417 The Fair Maid of Perth ; or, St. 

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463 Redgauntlet. A Tale of the 

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580 The Red Route 20 

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367 Tie and Trick 90 

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105 The History of Henry Esmond. 20 

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508 The Unholy Wish 10 

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535 Henrietta’s Wish. ATale 10 

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99 Barbara’s History. Amelia B. 

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103 Rose Fleming. Dora Russell. . 10 
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111 The Little School-master Mark. 

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112 The Waters of Marah. John 

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114 Some of Our Girls. Mrs. C. J. 

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115 Diamond Cut Diamond. T. 

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120 Tom Brown’s School Days at 

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122 lone Stewart. Mrs. E. Lynn 

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127 Adrian Bright. Mrs. Caddy 20 

149 The Captain’s Daughter. From 

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150 For Himself Alone. T. W. 

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151 The Ducie Diamonds. C. Blath- 

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156 “For a Dream’s Sake.” Mrs. 

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158 The Starling. Norman Mac- 

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160 Her Gentle Deeds. Sarah Tyt- 

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161 The Lad}'^ of Lyons. Founded 

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163 Winifred Power. Joyce Dar- 
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170 A Great Treason. Mary Hop- 

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174 Under a Ban. Mrs. Lodge 20 

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178 More Leaves from the Journal 
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218 Agues Sbrel. G. P. R. James. . 20 

219 Lady Clare : or, The Master of 

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242 The Two Orphans. D’Ennery. 10 
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285 The Gambler’s Wife..'. 20 

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311 Two Years Before the Mast. R. 

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341 Madolin Rivers; or. The Little 

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347 As Avon Flows. Henry Scott 

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352 At Any Cost Edward Garrett. 10 
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Tylney Hall. Thomas Hood ... 20 
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Alice’s Adventures in Wonder- 
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Nell Haffenden. Tighe Hopkins lyO 


374 

381 

382 

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545 Vida’s Story. By the author of 

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599 Lancelot Ward, M. P. By 

George Temple 10 

600 Houp-La. By John Strange 

Winter. (Illustrated) 10 


NO. PRICE. 

601 Slings and Arrows, and Other 

Stories. By Hugh Conway, 
author of “ Called Back ” 10 

602 Camiola: A (>irl With a Fort- 

une. By Justin McCarthy. . . 20 

603 Agnes. Airs. Oliphant. 1st half 20 

603 Agnes. Airs. Oliphant. 2d half 20 

604 Innocent: A Tale of Alodern 

Life. Airs. Oliphant. 1st half 20 
604 Innocent: A Tale of Alodern 

Life. Airs. Oliphant. 2d half 20 
606 Airs. Holly er. By Georgiana M. 


Craik 20 

607 Self-Doomed. By B. L. Farjeon 10 

608 For Lilias. By Rosa Nouchette 

Carey 20 

609 The Dark House: A Knot Un- 

raveled. By G. Alanville Fenn 10 

610 The Story of Dorothy Grape 

and Other Tales. By Mrs. 
Henry Wood 10 

611 Babylon. By Cecil Power 20 

612 Aly Wife’s Niece. By the au- 

thor of “ Dr. Edith Romney ” 20 

613 The Ghost’s Touch, and Percy 

and the Prophet. By Wilkie 
Collins 10 

614 No. 99. By Arthur Griffiths... 10 

616 The Sacred Nugget. By B. L. 

Farjeon 20 

617 Like Dian’s Kiss. By “ Rita ”. 20 

618 The Alistletoe Bough. Christ- 

mas, 1885. Edited by Aliss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

619 Joy; or, The Light of Cold- 

Home Ford. By May Crom- 
melin 20 

620 Between the Heather and the 

Northern Sea. AI. Linskill... 20 

621 The Warden. By Anthony 

Trollope 10 

623 Aly Lady’s Aloney. By Wilkie 

Collins 10 

624 Primus in Indis. By M. J. 

Colquhoun 10 

625 Erema; or, Aly Father’s Sin. 

By R. D. Blackmore 20 

627 White Heather. By William 

Black 20 

628 Wedded Hands. ANovel 20 

629 Cripps, the Carrier. By R. D. 

Blackmore 20 

630 Cradock Nowell. By R. D. 

Blackmore. First half 20 

635 Alurder or Manslaughter? By 

Helen B. Alathers 10 

639 Othmar. By “Ouida” 20 

646 Tlie AlHster of the Aline. By 

Robert Buchanan 20 


The foregoing works, contained in The Seaside Library, Pocket Edition, 
are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address, postage free, on 
receipt of price. Parties ordering by mail will please order by numbers. Ad- 
dr0ss 

GEORGE MUNRO, 

MUNRO’S PUBLISHING HOUSE, 

17 to 27 Vande water Street, N. Y, 


P. O. Box 3751, 


THE NEW YORK FASHION BAZAR 


BOOK OF THE TOILET. 

PRICE 85 CE:XX». * 

’ THIS IS A LITTLE BOOK 

! WHICH 

i WE CAN RECOMMEND TO EVERY LADY 

FOR THB 

PEESERVATIOIT AND INCREASE OP HEALTH AND BEAUTY, 

IT CONTAINS FULL DIRECTIONS FOR ALL THE 

ARTS AND MYSTERIES OF PERSONAL DECORATION, 

AND FOR 

Increasing the Natural Graces of Form and Expression. 

ALL THE LITTLE AFFECTIONS OF THE 

KCa^ir, axid. ^0^37* 

THAT DETRACT FROM APPEARANCE AND HAPPINESS 

Are Made the Subjects of Precise and Excelknt Recipes. 

Ladies Are Instructed How to Reduce Their Weight 

Without Iniury to Health and Without Producing 
Pallor and Wea;kness. 

HOTHIHG NTECESSAKY TO 

A COMPLETE TOILET BOOK OF RECIPES 

AND 

VALUABLE ADVICE AND INPOEMATION 

HAS BEEN OVERLOOKED IN THE COMPILATION OF THIS VOLUME, 

For sale by all Newsdealers, or sent to any address on receipt of 25 cents, 
postage prepaid, by the publisher. Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, Munro’s Publishing House, 

P. O. Box 3751. 17 to 27 Vaudewater Street, N, Y, 


MUNKO’S PUBLICATIONS. 


Old Sleuth Library 


A Series of the Most Thrilling- Detective 
Stories Ever Published! 


WO. PRICE. 

1 Old Sleuth the Detective 10c 

2 The King of the Detectives 10c 

3 Old Sleutli’s Triumph. First half 10c 

3 Old Sleuth’s Triumph. Second half 10c 

4 Under a Million Disguises 10c 

5 Night Scenes in New York 10c 

6 Old Electricity, the Lightning Detective 10c 

7 The Shadow Detective. First half 10c 

7 The Shadow Detective. Second half 10c 

8 Red-Light Will, the River Detective 10c 

9 Iron Burgess, the Oovernment Detective 10c 

10 The Brigands of New York 10c 

11 Tracked by a Yentriloquist 10c 

12 The Twin Detectives 10c 

13 The French Detective 10c 

14 Billy Wayne, the St. Louis Detective 10c 

15 The New York Detective 10c 

16 O’Neil McDarragh, the Irish Detective 10c 

17 Old Sleuth in Harness Again 10c 

18 The Lady Detective 10c 

19 The Yankee Detective 10c 

20 The Fastest Boy in New York 10c 

21 Black Raven, the Georgia Detective 10c 

22 Nighthawk, the Mounted Detective 10c 

23 The Gypsy Detective lOe 

The Publisher will send any of the above works by mail, postage 
prepaid, on receipt of the price. Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, 

Muiiro’s Publishing House, 

r. 0. Kox nm- 17 to 27 Vandewater St., N, J, 


JUST ISSUED. 


JUST ISSUED 


JULIIJT CORSON’S 

NEW FAMILY COOK 

BY MISS JUIilET CORSON, 

Author of “ Meals for the Million, ” etc., etc. 
Superintendent op the New York School op Cookery. 


PRICE: HANDSOMELY BOUND IN CLOTH, $1.00. 

A COMPLETE COOK BOOK 

For Family Use in City and Country. 

containing • 

PRACTICAL RECIPES AND FULL AND PLAIN DIREC- 
TIONS FOR COOKING ALL DISHES USED 
IN AMERICAN HOUSEHOLDS. 

The Best and Most Economical Methods of Cooking: Meats, Fish, 
Vegetables, Sauces, Salads, Puddings and Pies, 

How to Prepare Relishes and Savory Accessories, Picked-up Dishes, 
Soups, Seasoning, Stufling and Stews. 

How to Make Good Bread, Biscuit, Omelets, Jellies, Jams, Pan- 
cakes, Fritters and Fillets, 



Miss Corson is the best American writer on cooking. All of her recipes 
liare been carefully tested in the New York School of Cookery. If her direc- 
tions are carefully followed there will be no failures and no reason for com- 
))laint. Her directions are always plain, very complete, and easily followed. 

Juliet Corson’s New Family Cook Book 

Is sold by all newsdealers. It will be sent, postpaid, on receipt of price: 
handsomely bound in cloth, $1.00. Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, 

Munro’s Publishing House, 
f. Q, Jlo:s 3751. 17 to 37 Vandewater gt., ff. Y. 




isvC TJ isr IS o ’ s 


DIALOGUES AND SPEAKERS. 

PRI€£ TEN CENTS. 


These books embrace a series of Dialogues and Speeches, all new and 
original, and are just what is needed to give spice and merriment to Social 
Parties, Home Entertainments, Debating Societies, School Recitations, 
Amateur Theatricals, etc. They contain Irish, German, Negro, Yankee, 
and, in fact, all kinds of Dialogues and Speeches. The following are the 
titles of the books: 

No. 1. THE FUNNY FELLOW’S DIALOGUES. 

No. 2. THE CLEMENCE AND DONKEY DIALOGUES. 
No. 3. MRS. SMITH’S BOARDERS’ DIALOGUES. 
No. 4. SCHOOLBOYS’ COMIC DIALOGUES. 


No. 1. VOT I KNOW ’BOUT GRUEL SOCIETIES SPEAKER. 
No. 2. JOHN B. GO-OFF COMIC SPEAKER. 

No. 3. MY BOY VILHELM’S SPEAKER. 


The above titles express, in a slight degree, the contents of the books, 
which are conceded to be the best series of mirth-provoking Speeches and 
Dialogues extant. Address 

GEORGE MTJNEO, 

Mttnro’s Publishing House, 


P, 0. Box 3751. 


17 to S7 Vandewater Street, N. T. 


MUNRO’S PUBLICATIONS. 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY 

ORDINARY EDITION. 


The following works contained in Thb- Seaside Library, Ordinary Edition, 
are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address, postage free, 
©n receipt of the price, by the publisher. Parties ordering by mail will pleas® 
order by numbers. 


MRS. ALEXANDER’S WORKS. 

30 Her Dearest Foe 20 

36 The Wooing O’t * 20 

46 The Heritage of Langdale 20 

370 Ralph Wilton’s Weird 10 

400 Which Shall it Be? 20 

532 Maid, Wife, or Widow 10 

1231 The Freres 20 ' 

1259 Valerie’s Fate 10 

1391 Look Before You Leap 20 

1602 The Australian Aunt 10 

1595 The Admiral’s Ward 20 

1721 The Executor 20 

1984 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid 10 

WILLIAM BLACK’S WORKS. 

13 A Princess of Thule 90 

28 A Daughter of Heth 10 

47 In Silk Attire 10 

48 The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton 10 

51 Kilmeny ... 10 


THh SEASIDE LIBB ART.-- Ordinary Edition. 

- I 11 ■-■■-,■ ■ 11 II -■■■., I I, , , , , , mm . I 

68 The Monarch of Mincing Lane 10 

79 Madcap Yiolet (small type) 10 

004 Madcap Violet (large type) 

242 The Three Feathers 10 

890 The Marriage of Moira Fergus, and The Maid of Killeena, 

417 Macleod of Dare ^ 2/4 

451 Lady Silverdale’s Sweetheart , 10 

668 Green Pastures and Piccadilly 10 

816 White Wings: A Yachting Romance... 10 

826 Oliver Goldsmith 10 

950 Sunrise: A Story of These Times. 20 

1025 The Pupil of Aurelius 10 

1032 That Beautiful Wretch ^ . 10 

1161 The Pour MacNicols 10 

1264 Mr. Pisistratus Brown, M.P., in the Highlands 10 

1429 An Adventure in Thule. A Story for Young People 10 

1556 Shandon Bells 20 

1603 Yolande 20 

1893 Judith Shakespeare: Her Love Affairs and other Advent- 
ures 20 

MISS M. E. BRA.DDON’S WORKS. 

26 Aurora Floyd 20 

69 To the Bitter End 20 

09 The Lovels of Arden 20 

05 Dead Men’s Shoes 20 

109 Eleanor’s Victory 20 

114 Darrell Markham 10 

140 The Lady Lisle 10 

171 Hostages to Fortune. 20 

190 Henry Dunbar 20 

215 Birds of Prey 20 

235 An Open Verdict 20 

251 Lady Audley’s Secret 20 

254 The Octoroon 10 

260 Charlotte’s Inheritance, 20 

287 Leighton Grange 10 

295 Lost for Love 26 

822 Dead-Sea Fruit 20 

459 The Doctor’s Wife 20 

469 Rupert Godwin. . . - 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY, — Ordinary EdiUm. 


481 Tixen 30 

482 The Cloven Foot 30 

600 Joshua Haggard’s Daughter 20 

619 Weavers and Weft 10 

625 Sir Jasper’s Tenant 20 

539 A Strange World 20 

650 Fenton’s Quest 20 

562 John Marchmunt’s Legacy 20 

672 The Lady’s Mile 20 

579 Strangers and Pilgrims 20 

681 Only a Woman (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

619 Taken at the Flood • 20 

641 Only a Clod 20 

649 Publicans and Sinners 20 

656 George Caulfield’s Journey 10 

665 The Shadow in the Corner 10 

666 Bound to John Company; or, Robert Ainsleigh 20 

701 Barbara ; or, Splendid Misery 20 

705 Put to the Test (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

734 Diavola; or. Nobody’s Daughter. Part 1 20 

734 Diavola; or, Nobody’s Daughter. Part II 20 

811 Dudley Carleon 10 

828 The Fatal Marriage 10 

837 Just as I Am; or, A Living Lie 20 

943 Asphodel 20 

1154 The Mistletoe Bough 20 

1265 Mount Royal 20 

1469 Flower and Weed 10 

1553 The Golden Calf 20 

1638 A Hasty Marriage (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

1715 Phantom Fortune 20 

1736 Under the Red Flag - 10 

1877 An Ishmaelite 20 

1915 The Mistletoe Bough. Christmas, 1884 (Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon) 20 

CHARLOTTE, EMILY, AND ANNE BRONTE’S WORKS. 

3 Jane Eyre (in small type) 10 

396 Jane Eyre (in bold, handsome type). 20 

162 Shirley 20 

511 The Professot 10 



PEARS^ SO Kl? removes the irritability, redness 
and blotchy appearance of the shin from which many 
children suffer. It is unrivaled as a pure, delxghU 
ful TOILET SOAP, and is for sale throxighout the 
civilized ivorld^ 


The New York Fashion Bazar. ’ 

THE BEST AMEBICAN HOME MA&AZINE. 

Price !^5 Cents per Copy. Subscription Price per Year. 


A HANDSOME clironio Will be given free to every yearly subscriber to the 
New York Monthly Fashion Bazar whose name will be on our books when 
the Christmas number is issued. Persons desirous of availing themselves of 
this elegant present will please forward their subscription as soon as possible. 

The New York Fashion Bazar is a magazine for ladie^. contains 
everything which a lady's magazine ought to contain. The fn. in dress 

which it publishes are new and reliable. Particular attention is devoted to 
fashions for children of all ages. Its plates and descriptions will assist every 
lady in the preparation of her wardrobe, both in making new dresses and re- 
modeling old ones. The fashions are derived from the best houses and are 
alwa 3 's practical as well as new and tasteful. 

Every lady reader of The New York Fashion Bazar can make her own 
dresses with the a d of Munro’s Bazar Patterns. These are carefully' cut to 
measure and pinned into the perfect semblance of the garment. They are use- 
ful in altering old as well as in making new clothing. 

The Bazar Embroidery Supplements form an important part of the maga- 
zine. Fancy w'ork is carefully described and illustrated, and new patterns 
given in every number. 

All household matters are fully and interestingly treated. Home informa- 
tion, decoration, personal gossip, correspondence, and recipes for cooking 
have each a department. 

Among its regular contributors are Mary Cecil Hay, “ The Duchess,” 
author of “Molly Bawn,” Lucy Randall Comfort, Charlotte M. Braeme, 
author of “Dora Thorne,” Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller, Mary E. Bryan, 
author of “ Manch,” and Florence A. Warden, author of “ The House on the 
Marsh.” 

The stories published in The New York Fashion Bazar are the best that 
can be had. 

To avoid being swindled, all persons, when subscribing to The New York 
Fashion Bazar through parties who represent themselves to be the agents of 
the publisher, are requested to make their payments direct to the office of 
publication, by Registered Letter, Post Office IMoney Order, Bank Draft, or 
Check, to the order of George Munro. Canvassers are not authorized to take 
subscriptions at less than the retail price of $2..50 a year, nor to make any col- 
lections whatever. In all eases send remittances to George Munro, Publisher. 

The New York Fashion Bazar is for sale by all newsdealers, price 25 cents 
per cop 3 L Subscription price $2.50 per year. Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, Muiiio’s Publishing House, 


P. O. Bo^3751. 


17 to 27 Vandewater St., N. Y. 


I 


THE CELEBRATED 

SOHMEE 


GEAND, SQTTAEE AND UPRIGHT PIANOS. 



ARE AT PRESENT THE MOST POPUIiAR 

AND PREFERRED BY THE LEADING ARTISTS. 

SOHMKR & CO., Manufacturers, No. 149 to 155 E. 14lh Street, N. Y. 


FIRST PRIZE 

DIPLOMA. 

Centennial Extiibi- 
tion, 1876; Montreal, 
1881 and 1882. 

The enviable po- 
sition Sohmer & 
Co. hold among 
American Piano 
Manufacturers is 
solely due to the 
merits of their in- 
struments. 


They are used 
in Conservato- 
ries, Schools and 
Seminaries, on ac- 
count of their su- 
perior tone and 
unequaled dura- 
bility. 

The SOHMER 
Piano is a special 
favorite with the 
leading musicians 
and critics. 


FROM THE 
NERVE -GIVING 
PRINCIPLES OF 
THE OX-BRAIN 
AND THE GERM 
OF THE WHEAT 
AND OAT. 

BRAINANLNERTEFOOD, 

CROSWY’S 

VITALIZED PHOSPHITES 

Is a standard with all Physicians who treat 
nervous or mental disorders. It builds up 
worn out nerves, banishes sleeplessness, 
neuralgria and side headache. It promotes 
good digestion. It restores the energy lost 
by nervousness, debility, or over-exhaust- 
ion ; regenerates weakened vital powers. 


“ It amplifies bodily and mental power to 
the present generation, and proves the sur- 
vival of the fittest to the next.” — Bismarck. 


‘‘ It strengthens nervous power. It is the 
only medical relief I have ever known for 
an over- worked brain.”— Gladstone. 


“ I really urge you to put it to the test.”— 

Miss Emily Faithful. 

F. CROSBY CO., 56 W. 25th St., N. Y. 

For sale by Druggists, or by mail $1. « 



Munro’s Publications. 

THE SEASIDE LIBRARY 

POCKET EDITION. 

M18S M. E. BKAl>l>ON’8 WORKS. 


85 Lady Aiidiey’s Se- 
cret 20 

56 Phantom Fortune.. 20 

74 Aurora Floyd 20 

110 Under the Red Flag 10 
lo3 The Golden Calf. . . . 20 

204 Vixen 20 

211 The Octoroon 10 

234 Barbara ; or, Splen. 

did Misery 20 

268 An IshmaelUe 20 

SloThe Mistletoe 
Bough. Edited by 
Miss Braddon.... 20 
434 Wyllard’s Weird.. 20 
478 Diavola; or, No- 
hod y’s Daughter. 

Part 1 20 

478 Diavola; or. No. 
body’s Daughter. 

Part II 20 

480 Married in Haste. 
Edited by Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

487 Pnt to the Test. 

Edited by Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

488 Joshua Haggard’s 

Daughter 20 

480 Rupert Godwin. ... 20 

495 Mount Royal 20 

406 Only a Woman. 
E4l!ted by Miss M. 

£. Braddon 20 


497 The Lady’s Mile... 20 

408 Only a Clod 20 

400 The ( loven Foot. . . 20 

511 A Strange World.. 20 

5 1 5 Sir Jasper’s Tenant 20 
524 Strangers and Pil- 
grims 20 

620 The Doctor’s Wife. 20 

512 Fenton’s Quest 20 

544 Cut by the County; 

or, Grace Darnel. 10 
548 The Fatal Marriage, 
and The Shadow 
ill the Corner. .. . 10 
649 Dudley Carleon: or, 

The Brother’s Se- 
cret, and George 
Caulfield’s Jour- 
ney 10 

552 Host ages toFortiine 20 

553 Birds of Prey ’20 

554 Charlotte’s Inher- 

itance. (Sequel to 
“Birds of Prey.”) 20 
557 To the Bitter End 20 
5.50 Taken at the Flood 20 

56ti Asphodel 20 

561 Just as 1 am; or, A 

Living Lie 20 

567 Dead Men’s Shoes.. 20 
5«0 John .Marchmont’s 

I.egacy 20 


Any ot the above works will he srtit by mail, postpaid, 
on receipt of the price. Address 

GEORGE MUNKO, Miinro's Publishing Hense, 

P. O. Box 3751. 1 7 to 27 Vandewnter St., N. Y. 


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